


Quite a long intermezzo

by WordOfAll



Series: Mycroft, darkness and love [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 31,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordOfAll/pseuds/WordOfAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments of understanding between the Holmes´brothers are always only intermezzos between screw-ups, usually caused by Mycroft. Or are they?</p><p>Is it possible to let go the fear of vulnerability? Is it possible to be forgiven for things you can´t forgive yourself?</p><p>Sequel to ´Five times Mycroft failed Sherlock´. Any comments appreciated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

_Goodbye, Sherlock... I failed you one last time, he thinks. And there is just darkness._

And then there is something more. Small streaks of orange and yellow spill their light on the edge of Mycroft´s vision. Well, he thinks. At least it is good to know the vicar was right about hell.

But when he turns his head a little, he finds out it is not, in fact, a hell. It is a small bonfire in the middle of nothingness, wood cracking pleasantly and ambers lighting a smallish portion of whatever this place is.

"Mycroft? Mycroft!" It can´t be. This is impossible. But Sherlock calls again: "Come on. Over here!"

So he gets up stiffly and follows the spark of light. He soon notices that he is naked. Great, he thinks. No dignity at all.

But then he is given a sheet by a small long-fingered hand. "Here. Make yourself decent." And he does, putting the sheet round him toga-like.

"You are not dead," states Mycroft, not knowing what else to say. He is also aware that Sherlock is decidely no longer a fourteen-year old boy with these long curls and limbs flailing to all directions.

"Exactly," says the not-so-much Sherlock. Is he reading my mind? wonders Mycroft.

"Not as much as inhabit it," announces the teenager and sits near the fire, tugging the elder Holmes by his arm to join him. "Oh come on." He sounds annoyed.

Mycroft doesn´t understand much here, and frankly has no energy to spare. "Am I dead?" he asks instead.

"Not yet."

"Oh. But I was - I am dying, right?"

"Not necessarily."

A pause. Mycroft is starting to get very cold, so he shifts nearer to the flames and stretches his arms above them.

"I am hallucinating."

"You could say that, yes. I must say, I would have thought you could pick up a better venue than this."

"I will give it a thought next time. If there will be a next time," he adds.

"Well, I guess it is up to you."

"How so?"

"See that?" the teenager stretches his arm and points it across the fire to a point on a horizon. Wait, Mycroft startles. There _wasn´t_ any horizon a minute ago. But now there it is, a few rays of shallow light are illuminating some sort of moulds and not very high hills. It looks rather like Moroccan desert, Mycroft thinks.

"What is that?"

"How am I supposed to know? I know only as much as you do, remember?"

"It looks like a sunrise."

"Yes, of course it does. You never had much of an imagination as far as spiritual is concerned. But I guess you could say there is the end there. Like, you can go there and finish everything. Just - be dead and do whatever dead people do. If there is anything. And if you could be forgiven for your sins and whatnot."

"I see."

"Do you want to go?"

"Are there any alternatives?"

"You can try going _away_ from it?"

"And return? Live?"

"Maybe."

"You are not helping much, you know?"

"I am not the one with unresolved philosophical beliefs."

He has a point, Mycroft has to admit. But he has no desire to choose right now. Why can´t he just stay here? There is fire and Sherlock and for once they´re not bickering and this Sherlock seems to have forgiven him.

"It is not very healthy to hide in a dream world, Mycroft," the fourteen year old remarks. "Nor very brave."

"I thought you already knew I am a coward."

"If you stay here, you are going to die. If you go towards there, you are going to die. It will probably stop the pain. You are given a chance to run from your problems. If you turn, you _might_ die. But you also might live and make things better."

"Or worse."

"Yes, even that. Either way, you don´t need me anymore here. Goodbye."

"Wait! I need you. Please, brother..."

"You have a real brother waiting for you there," the not-real-Sherlock motioned to the pitch black nothingness and disappeared.

Yes, Mycroft thought, but he hates me. Rightfully so. But he stared into the darkness and thought that maybe he should take a chance. Because you can always _make yourself dead_ , but _making yourself alive again_ didn´t seem as much of an option, he reasoned.

He took a log from the fire to serve as a torch and started to make his way towards the unknown. I´ve been always best keeping in the shadow, he chuckled mirthlessly and walked steadily away from the light.

He wasn´t entirely sure how much time passed or what happened after that. But suddenly, there was light again, but it was red and painful and utterly human.

My eyes, he thought. The light must be right above me, to hurt my eyes like this, even if they´re closed. And they were.

He sniffed. Not nice. Bleach and cheap washing powder and sweat (must be his). He was cocooned in some rough textile – hospital, then. He was in a hospital. It made sense, after all.

Ok, Mycroft. You seem to be alive. Well, you can certainly feel your chest going up and down, though it probably shouldn´t be this unpleasant. And there is a steady heartbeat to be heard in your ears and your mouth feels like something that shouldn´t be there was there and then got taken away, thank God.

Feet. Judging by the gentle feel and sounds of a sheet moving, the toes are really obeying your brain and moving. Arms, then. Something unpleasant attached to the left hand. IV tube. Yes, must be.

Satisfied that his limbs were indeed capable of functioning, he rested for a while. Those little movements weren´t supposed to be so draining. He felt rather like a broken marionette.

All right, Mycroft, the light is starting to really sting, and there is headache growing somewhere near the base of your nose. If you open them, you can find a switch and stop this damned torture.

Whoever superglued his eyelids had a really crooked sense of humour. It was probably Sherlock.

He was indeed in a hospital room. Something machine like and emanating a certainly unpleasant beeping was stationed to his left, and to his right there was a small table with a jug of water, a cup and a switched on lamp.

The one who probably inadvertently caused Mycroft´s awakening by the means of burning rays of white light was Lestrade. The cop was sitting on a plastic chair close to the bed, a paperback threatening to leave his weak grip at any moment, as he was asleep.

He looked positively savage. He certainly didn´t shave in at least the last four days, and various details pointed to a fact that he didn´t, indeed, leave this spot for most of that time. There were dark bruises from lack of sleep forming under his eyes. His shirt was rumpled and the collar was dirty from sweat.

But Mycroft decided that he will mull over the fact that Lestrade didn´t leave his bedpost while Mycroft was incapacitated and the possible implications of that for later - now he has to find the damned switch.

But as he was fumbling to find it, Greg startled like a wild animal. Various expressions crossed his tired face, starting with fear, confusion, surprise, happiness and ending with something Mycroft didn´t have a label for - but it felt rather warm.

"Mycroft." Greg said and smiled slightly. "You´re awake." And as he saw the direction of Mycroft´s previous movements, he switched off the lamp and chuckled: "Oh, sorry for that. You weren´t the best company, so I had to take a book to this party."

"Sherlock?" When did I start to sound this hoarse and exhausted? Mycroft wondered. Neither Sherlock, nor John were here. Of course they wouldn´t.

"They´re next door, in the waiting room. He refused to rest, so after some three days he just fainted. John is there with him, though I suppose I should wake them up or Sherlock´ll kill me."

"Three days?"

There is something in Greg´s brown eyes. "You were out for more than a week. We were scared, you know. That you wouldn´t..." Lestrade definitely averted his sight right then. "But it doesn´t matter now. I´m gonna get a doctor and tell Sherlock." And he moved towards the door.

"Wait. Please, just a little while." Mycroft wasn´t ready. He was tired and scared to be left alone, scared that he would fall asleep and be sucked again into the darkness, afraid that he was not ready to confront his brother. Because there would inevitably be a confrontation about just how many problems he caused and that this one pseudoheroic crusade isn´t gonna earn him anyone´s forgiveness and anyway if his performance while fighting the men in the empty house was the best he had in stock than God protect Britain´s secret services.

And he knew that this time he would break. Because being thought of badly is one thing, but being thought of _rightfully badly_ was another.

Lestrade must have noticed something about this, because he made his way towards the bed and sat on a free space on it without further questions.

"I was telling the truth, you know. _We_ were scared. Me, Sherlock and John. You should have seen your brother - or rather not, it was not a sight I would want anyone to see - if it weren´t for John, I suppose he would have already burnt the hospital to the ground." He started stroking soothing circles on Mycroft´s back. It felt nice.

But still... "He has every right to hate me," Mycroft whispered.

"No, he hasn´t. Period. It´s not like he didn´t make his fair share of stupidities. And wherever you took the idiotic idea that you are evil, I can assure you it´s complete bollocks. Listen to me, Mycroft," and he took his faces into his hands and forced the blue eyes to meet his, "you are a decent person. Objectively. So just stop being scared all the time."

"There is a long way from decency to morality."

"Oh fuck off." And he kissed him.

Strictly speaking, it shouldn´t have been pleasant. They were two unshaved, sweaty and exhausted men, who didn´t brush their teeth in a few days. But it was, somehow. It is nice, Mycroft thought. Gentle. He felt... _safe_ , he supposed.

Then they stopped and started to simultaneously search for something in their eyes. Mycroft wasn´t sure if there was something to be found in his, but Greg´s chocolate ones emanated warmth and protection. He has _feelings_ for me, Mycroft suddenly realised. But why?

"He will forgive you. Hell, he has already forgiven you," said Greg and he was so _sure_. How can he be so sure about thing like this? How come that he was slapped so many times and yet he has the cheek to wear his heart in the palm of his hand?

"It will be just an intermezzo. As always, we will dance around each other until I do something stupid. It will be just an intermezzo between two storms."

"I never liked opera." And Lestrade kissed him on a temple before leaving the room.


	2. Conversations

 

The doctor, a woman of Indian descent in her mid-thirties, proved to be thorough but not unnecessarily annoying. As soon as Mycroft showed his ability to not only remember his name and day of birth, but also to quote Shakespeare´s twenty seventh sonnet, she checked his chart, scribbled something in it and left.

The dreaded and at the same time horribly craved conversation started some two minutes later, when his brother entered the room in a dramatic manner, though it was partly destroyed by his greasy hair´s innability to move much.

"You look thin," said Mycroft, because he didn´t know what else to say. And it was the truth.

"So do you," said Sherlock and seated himself legs crossed on the chair abandoned by Lestrade.

"I am so sorry," started Mycroft his apology just as Sherlock blurted: "Forgive me."

A pause. Both brothers looking at each other, their faces sharing an expression of mild surprise.

Then Sherlock takes the floor with an unusually soft voice: "What were you thinking, jumping on five armed men like that?"

"It would seem I am slower than I used to be. I´m afraid I´m getting too old."

Sherlock laughs. Then he gets serious again. "You could have died."

Yes, Mycroft thinks. One lonely, bitter and useless man in exchange for two human beings in love with each other, one of those two being the loner´s brother. He would have done this again if needed.

As if Sherlock could read his mind, he has found Mycroft´s sight again and met his eyes. "Don´t do anything like this ever again. You were right. Each on our own, we are vulnerable, brother."

Are Sherlock´s eyes wet, or is it just the light playing? Mycroft´s throat constricted and he was able to just whisper: "Thank you."

Oh, little brother, Mycroft thought. Please, give me this one last chance. I will do anything you want, just don´t leave me again, Sherlock, please. I don´t know how to make things better, but I will try, I swear. Please.

He must have fallen asleep again, lulled to oblivion by the sweet thought that he could be forgiven. When he opened his eyes again, the chair was once more occupied by Gregory Lestrade.

It was darker outside. Afternoon, then.

"John and Sherlock are negotiating your release to home care with Dr Dhaliwal - well, John is negotiating and Sherlock is ruining his efforts." There were, indeed, raised voices to be heard from the hall.

"I see."

"Your brother wanted to take you to 221B, but I think your house is bigger and it would be easier to move you there. If you wouldn´t be adverse to three or four house guests."

"Thank you, but I am sure my assistant could provide an adequate medical staff to look after me. I wouldn´t want to inconvenience you or indeed my brother and his flatmate."

"Yes, Anthea or whatever her real name was, already hired a nurse. She also said that we should stay with you to stop the nurse being bullied into letting you do anything foolish. So your only remaining option would be to try calling the police and have a DI of the New Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson arrested for tresspassing." His grin revealed how much chance would this attempt have to work.

"Am I kidnapped, then?"

"Sort of," a flash of teeth. He managed to get home and get a change of clothes. Greg looked much more at ease now. "How did the conversation with Sherlock go?"

The look in the chocolate brown eyes said: If you think this question impertinent, you don´t have to answer.

"Well," said Mycroft and Greg nodded in acceptance. "How long did doctor..."

"Dhaliwal."

"How long did doctor Dhaliwal said I would be this useless?"

"Well, she said that you were quite lucky you were alive in the first place. Your lung got punctured and as far as I understand it, you had both a pneumothorax and severe bleeding in your chest. Not very nice, I imagine. They took you to surgery as soon as you got to the hospital."

"Oh."

"She also said you weren´t in the best shape to start with. Things such as lack of sleep or irregular or no nutrition are fine if you are twenty, Myc, but not for us old dogs."

"You´re not old," Mycroft blurted before he could stop himself.

Lestrade laughed. "And you are? You do realise I am a few years older than you?"

Mycroft couldn´t help but smile stupidly. They had to give him some medication, because he really wasn´t able to control himself. "I sometimes think I was born a fifty-year-old."

Greg´s smile vanished. "I believe the doctor said something about six weeks of rest."

Suddenly Mycroft realised something. "How are you going to manage both your work and nannying me? You don´t have to do the latter, you know. I am usually not the best of patients."

"I took three weeks off. I´ve set some holiday time aside throughout the year."

"You really don´t have to spend that on me."

"It´s not like I have a wife or children to spend it with."

"I am sorry."

"Don´t be. You were right then, in the club. I shouldn´t have married her in the first place. And then I thought that if we had children, maybe it would get us together. And Lisa seemed keen too." The smile now was heartbreakingly sad. "But we didn´t click, somehow. She just wouldn´t get pregnant. There was nothing physically wrong with neither of us, we just... I guess we just weren´t compatible, not even like this."

The few minutes of silence that followed were interrupted by Sherlock, John and Dr Dhaliwal entering.

"Mr Holmes. I see you are awake. Good," the woman said calmly and smiled politely. "Any pain? Problems?"

"No, not really."

"Your brother," she gave Sherlock a doubtful glance, "says that your house is fully medically equipped to handle a patient recovering from hemopneumothorax. Is that true?"

"It will be."

"All right. You will stay here for another two days." John wanted to say something, but she didn´t let him: "My patient, my rules. You didn´t sew the insides of him," she flashed a glare to Sherlock, who seemed to be prepared to defend John´s medical abilities. The younger Holmes paled visibly.

Mycroft couldn´t help but chuckle at the sight of the two men being put to their place by this fearsome woman. He was starting to like her. Well, up until...

"As for you," the finger was pointed at his chest, "I suggest you don´t get yourself shot again. I would have thought the collection of scars you already have would be sufficient." Mycroft´s smile disappeared. "Also, I have seen your test results. It would be wise to lay off the brandy or whatever booze you are imbibing. The liver might start to protest soon."

Mycroft would be the first to admit that his consummation of alcoholic beverages has increased at least twofold in the last few months, but being berated like this surprised him. He felt blood rush to his cheeks.

"Yes, ma´am," he muttered.

Gregory Lestrade´s open laugh on the account of his three friends was weirdly freeing.

Well, it would be quite interesting five weeks, Mycroft thought.


	3. Storytime, part I of II

_´THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES´_ was blinking on the screen lazily.

 _"As you may have already heard from other sources, Sherlock is not dead and returned to 221B under rather dramatic circumstances,"_ continued John typing.

 _"The media coverage of the events in the last fortnight was already extensive enough,"_ meaning that journalists plagued both him and Mrs Hudson with calls and stupid questions - the same journalists who mere moths ago called for Sherlock´s head, _"so I believe all I have to say to this is that I, Sherlock and all our friends are OK now, all things considering."_

John sighed. Why did I never learn to write with all ten fingers? _"As for myself, I have made a mistake some time ago - I have made assumptions without getting some crucial bits of data. An acquaintance,"_ no, no, no, back, back, back, back, he risked his life for you,  _"a friend got hurt because of that._

_I apologise for the delay of this post, but the last two weeks were rather hectic. Thank you all who supported me during the last months and believed in Sherlock Holmes."_

Done. This would have to satisfy his followers.

He didn´t mention Mycroft´s name on purpose. He figured that the elder Holmes wouldn´t appreciate it because of his position even before he was advised by Mycroft´s PA. And by ´advised´ he meant a ´Mr Holmes prefers privacy´appearing on the screen in the middle of drafting this post.

It looked like being a PA of Mycroft Holmes and being an ordinary PA differed in much the same way as being a Secretary of State was miles away from being a secretary. The woman visited Mycroft regulary, bringing files with her as soon as Mycroft felt a little better and was able to navigate through his house on his own. John rather suspected that she ran Mycroft´s office in his stead.

Upon her third visit she stopped for a while to get some tea (Mycroft had ridiculous amounts of tea in his house.).

"Will you tell me your name now?" John tried.

She smiled. It looked like John got into her good books as soon as he started to be better friends with her employer. "Anna Theodora. My parents were very Greek indeed."

 

The elder Holmes was feeling physically better now, but the house was rather crowded in his opinion. Really, it had probably not seen so many people since that businessman´s family moved out ten years ago.

Mycroft would have protested, but he didn´t. Because his brother stayed under his roof on his own volition. Because Lestrade stayed there and brought with him tea and warmth everywhere he went. Because he didn´t rest like this in years.

The nurse his assistant hired was a fourty five years old woman who rather resembled a wardrobe when standing still. Which she didn´t do very often, choosing instead to move through the house with surprising ease.

She didn´t say much, though, as she probably felt her English had a lot to improve - it was true there was an accent there, making some words sound rather German-like and some far meeker than they were supposed to come out. A little research later (frankly, all he had to do was to ask Anthea - but he had his pride to maintain, so he did not ask for the file no doubt full of information on this woman), it turned out she was born in Bratislava to Czech parents.

Nothing could have pleased her more than Mycroft´s knowledge of Jaroslav Seifert. He wasn´t a diplomat for nothing, after all.

Mrs Klubkova stayed in the smallest guest room across from Mycroft´s bedroom on the first floor. He refused to move downstairs, claiming that he was supposed to get better soon and he is no cripple to not manage simple stairs. It was hard at first, mostly because he was feeling exhausted, but it soon improved and Mycroft lurked through his house like a restless ghost.

One of the other guestrooms was claimed by Gregory Lestrade when he was in - and he was in often, seemingly making a decision to try _all_ of Mycroft´s teas. He probably didn´t know that they were more samples hidden in the larder.

John Watson took the role of food provider. He was in charge of making dinner and all inhabitants of the house suffered through rather monotone diet of a lot of milk, curry and pasta until Mrs Klubkova threw away all politeness and made chicken.

As for Sherlock, the younger Holmes migrated through the house. He has so far slept in John´s bed, on the floor in Mycroft´s room, in front of the fireplace, on the couch, in Greg Lestrade´s room, on a chair in the kitchen and curled barricading the main entrance with his own body.

When he attempted to nest himself in Mycroft´s dirty clothes in one of the bathrooms, an intervention was necessary. When given an ultimatum and having to choose _one of the rooms_ to sleep in, he chose the library.

 

Right now, though, the house was silent. It was not unpleasant. It was the not-so-much silence of people sleeping in different rooms calmly and fire cracking happily in the fireplace and an occasional lone car moving past the windows. Quite different from the lurking, echoing silence of an almost empty house inhabited by a bitter middle-aged man, Mycroft thought.

He couldn´t sleep. He supposed his body just wasn´t used to so much rest, and as soon as the worst of the damage made by the bullet was healed, it resisted all atempts to spend eight hours a day _doing nothing_.

"Aren´t you supposed to be in bed?" asked a surprised voice from the doorframe. It was Lestrade.

"I can´t sleep."

"I see."

Greg joined near the fire, sitting on the carpet. He had a glass of water in his hands, from which he was sipping occasionaly.

Than the policeman shifted and asked suddenly: "Is there any reason why there are nettles in the middle of flowers in your garden?"

Mycroft chuckled. It must have nagged the policeman how is it possible to have such a perfect lawn and weed in one place. "Butterflies."

"I don´t follow."

"It was my old schoolmate´s idea. That it would be nice to have a garden both attracting butterflies and allowing their reproduction. The nettles are there to feed caterpillars of _Aglais urticae_."

"They looked like something was eating them," Greg is grinning.

"What?"

"Nothing," but Lestrade is still smiling. "You must show me your butterflies some day."

"It´s too clouded for them to be active much. Also, they are not mine per se."

"They eat your plants."

"You drink my tea and are not _mine_."

Something flashed in Lestrade´s eyes. "So, this friend is a lepidopterologist?" Another smile i reaction to Mycroft´s surprise. "Had a case few years ago involving a stolen butterflies collection. It was great fun."

"Entomologist. He was interested in all insects. I believe he was considered something of an expert of the _Meloidae_ family."

"Was?"

"He died."

"Oh. I´m sorry."

"Don´t be. You didn´t kill him." There was something off with Mycroft´s tone.

"Mycroft? Are you alright?"

Mycroft subconsciously touched his ring and averted Greg´s eyes. But then, Lestrade already knew half the story. How did this man got through all Mycroft´s carefully planted defences was a mystery.

"It used to be his, you know. This ring," Mycroft muttered and sighed. "Adrian joined the Service at the same time as I did. And frankly, I found his ability to just let go and play with pins and dead insects fascinating - and enviable. I guess we could have became good friends in time, but I was never very good at the art of befriending someone."

Well, Mycroft thought, at least Greg isn´t attempting to lie and convince me that no, I am a born social butterfly.

"The mission he died in was a disaster from the start. He was sent there to make things better after some new field operative screwed up. He managed to patch up a lot - he was a capable fellow, after all - but still, he ended up captured in a hostile country."

"Oh shit," Lestrade breathed.

"Yes, that is an apt description," Mycroft laughed bitterly. "Our... masters... wanted to leave it. Just abandon him. Somehow I managed to convince them that Adrian was too promising a servant of the Queen and Country to be just left to die, so they sent me to try to extract him - at my own peril were the mission unsuccessful."

Did Lestrade move a bit closer while I was looking away? "I got to him too late. If I were a little better at convincing my boss, if I vere a little cleverer, just a little bit quicker... he might have lived. But when I finally found him, he was... in a bad shape. Dying already."

It was still bitter thinking about this. After all they´d come through, he was too slow to save his one and only friend in a long time. And in the end, it was _Mycroft´s hand_ which ended his life, because it was the better option. Because he couldn´t just leave him there in a ditch dying slowly and painfully.

"He gave me the ring though. He and his fiancée bought matching rings just before he was sent away. They were planning to marry as soon as he returned.And he asked me to give it to her back home. Terribly romantic and completely useless, if you ask me, but I promised it nevertheless, because there was nothing else I could´ve done."

"Mycroft..." He´s going to tell me that I don´t have to continue. That if I don´t want to, he would understand, Mycroft realised. But what use would that be? As soon as I stop he starts to _comfort me,_ Mycroft shuddered inwardly.

"It was a foolish mission all in all, though I did manage to get some useful information and send some of it via a contact to our people. But it didn´t last long and my situation caught fire and I was apprehended too."


	4. Storytime, part II of II

He remembered mostly fear. That he would always fail those he cared for. That whatever he would do, it would not be enough. He had failed Adrian, because he hadn´t told him that he had considered him a friend, one of the few people in this world worthy of his attention.

He had failed Sherlock, repeatedly. And now he had been afraid that there was no time to find him anymore, to help him, to apologise.

He had been scared of being a failure to his country, of spilling some vital information.

"I was interrogated," he continued his story. "They were not professionals. Which was a good thing, in the end. I was asked questions by a local low-level officer probably trying to get a promotion instead of being sent to an anti-espionage unit."

Lestrade flinched. He has seen too many amateur-tortured victims.

"By a stroke of fortune, I managed to escape." Yeah, Mycroft, you did. Running through the countryside like a terrified rabbit.  
 "I wasn´t very... well at that point," which of course explained why his recollection of the events was so hazy, "and while I was crossing the border, I got shot on top of that."

A shoulder wound. Manageable for a healthy individual. Not so much for a bleeding, feverish and starving one.

"But I ran away from the country in question. To end up in a little less hostile one. In the hands of a local gang." He chuckled darkly.

 

_It is still raining. The drops are so big they hurt in contact with your skin, or maybe it is just that he is so sore himself. There is no point in trying to wring his clothes, but they are heavy with water and sticking to his skin unpleasantly._

_And then there is the mud. The moment he scrambled to the slick riverside he swore he will never swim again, especially not in rivers you know nothing about. Hell, he almost drowned when the large piece of what seemed to be safe ground he was attempting to get on ripped of the rest of its parent daub. But right now, maybe it isn´t such a bad idea to dip in again. Perhaps he wouldn´t be so terribly cold._

_He has found a road and started following it. Right now it was probably the only ground he could be sure of, and in the case he met someone in this horrible weather, he was so muddy and dirty he could probably pass as anyone. Not that he cared much._

_The troubling thing was his left shoulder, which hurt as hell. It was also emanating warmth. "Stop," he said aloud, because there wasn´t anyone to hear and the silence was opressing, "I need the heat inside."_

_It didn´t obey, obviously. He knew somewhere deep down, of course, that the heat was blood. That the makeshift bandage must have gotten loose. But he doesn´t know what else to do, because he is quite sure his right shoulder was dislocated. He has put it back in place somehow (and it hurt like hell, but he needed the arm), but he didn´t dare doing any complicated movements in fear of worrying the joint further. Which stopped him from applying better bandages on his wounds._

_Wounds. Plural. His chest was a mess of shallow cuts and bruises and burns. Same for the arms. He didn´t get a look at his face, but his nose hurt when he sniffed and his left eye was no doubt black. In other words, he probably looked a mess._

_And the rain wouldn´t stop._

_He has to keep going, every once in a while checking that the ring was still in his pocket. He promised._

_He was pretty sure his beast took over for most of the journey, because in the few moments of lucidity he was so scared he had to start reciting his mantra: "Substance is by nature prior to its modifications. Two substances, whose attributes are different, have nothing in common. Things, which have nothing in common, cannot be one the cause of the other..."_

_How did he get on his knees? Then he falls with an awful splash to a puddle. There is mud on his face. There is water everywhere. He´s losing._

_The intellect in function, whether finite or infinite, as will, desire, love etc., should be reffered to passive nature and not to active nature, he thought. And he fainted._

_Is that the sound of a motor running? A car. Yes.  
_

_Fuck! It´s going to run me over!  
_

_He opens his eyes full of panic. He was not run over by a car. He is in a car.  
_

_Five pairs of asian eyes fix on him. The driver keeps his gaze on the muddy road.  
_

_One face is talking. In standard Chinese. Good. He can understand that, if he just focused a little more.  
_

_"Fever," says the talking Chinese. It´s a girl. Maybe ten years old, perhaps not even that. The rest of the men in the covered truck is armed to their teeth, but uniformless. Good. No police, no army, then.  
_

_Fever, Mycroft thinks. I have an infection. Great. And then he´s out again.  
_

_When he wakes up, he is in a room. It is not a very big or a very clean one, that is granted, but it is a part of a house nevertheless. If the sound of raindrops falling on tiles is anything to go on, it still didn´t stop raining.  
_

_It is also warmer here than outside. It is not heated, but the adjacent room probably is, and he was given a change of clothes and a blanket.  
_

_His right shoulder and arm are wrapped in very tight bandages, preventing any movement both to tie him and to lift some of the pressure off the joint. I certainly doesn´t hurt that much now. The bandage on the bulletwound is also professionally made.  
_

_His right wrist is binded by a rope, though, and the rope continues its way to his legs, tying them together and to one of the beams coming from the floor. He can move a little, even sit after a little bit of fumbling, which he does, but he is certainly a prisoner.  
_

_The door opened and the girl from before entered, bringing a bowl with her. She smiles when she sees he´s awake.  
_

_"Hungry?" He nods. "No stupidity please," she says in a matter-of-fact voice making her way closer to him. She takes a box from a corner and puts it near Mycroft, sitting on it with the bowl sitting in her lap.  
_

_"I was told to feed you," she announces. She meant it literally, Mycroft realised. No ridding of the ties, then.  
_

_It is messy, no doubt. She is holding a long string of noodles high above his head and he sucks them one piece at the time leaving a lot of gravy on his lips and shirt and generally everywhere. She finds it amusing.  
_

_"Hungry baby-swallow," she chimes. Which prompts Mycroft to be even messier, because there are little things so healing as a child laughing and it is never bad to make at least one ally while on an unknown place. Especially if one is a prisoner.  
_

_She gives him a lot of water after that, waiting for him to take small sips.  
_

_"The doctor said to give you a lot of drink," she announces. "He also gave you fever medicine."  
_

_"What... is your name?" Mycroft asks. His Chinese really needs improvement, he makes a mental note.  
_

_"What is yours?" she smiles wickedly and it is weirdly unchildlike and calculating. She is trying to get information out of me, he realises.  
_

_"William," he says. It is clear he is European anyway.  
_

_"Soo Lin, " says the girl and she is lying too._

_Some two days ago it is clear that he has fallen into the hands of one of many Chinese gangs. His captors were waiting for someone important, called ´general Shan´, to arrive and decide what to do with him. They were probably either going to try to get a ransom for him or sell him to some secret service. Maybe even the Chinese authorities, totalitarian regimes are often in close contact with criminal elements.  
_

_The girl - he called her Soo Lin, it was a good enough nickname - was probably in charge of taking care of him. Apart from two bulky man designed to take him out in regular intervals to go to the toilet, she was the only one who had contact with him.  
_

_She was also the only one who talked to him. They must be very sure of her loyalty, he thought.  
_

_"Are you married?" she asked one day. It was clear she was really curious, especially as she added: "You had a marriage-ring."  
_

_He smiled. She was really endearing. "Are you asking to know whether you will get a ransom for me?"  
_

_"I think you are not. You came from behind the river. You wouldn´t go there if you had someone you care about. Too big risk." She shrugged with her little shoulders. "But you had a ring."  
_

_She´s clever. "It belonged to a friend."  
_

_"Oh. Do you want it back?" She moved her hand to her pocket and brought it to the light. "They would have taken it. But I took it first. It is nice, Swallow-man." And she handed it to him.  
_

_Later that night, most of the men residing in the next room moved away, making a lot of noise in the process. It didn´t take long and Soo Lin came to him.  
_

_"They went to catch swimmers," she announced. Mycroft decifred this statement as: Most of the men are out on a hunt for Korean refugees. "I was scared there alone."  
_

_She curled next to him. "You are nice, Swallow-man. It would be a shame if you had to die. Do you really have no one who would pay for you?"  
_

_It was dark and quiet and Mycroft was tired of dishonesty. "I have a brother, but I don´t know where."  
_

_"Was he with you, behind the river?"  
_

_"No. We argued - it was my fault. And he left."  
_

_"How long you didn´t see him?"  
_

_"A year and a half."  
_

_She turned her big eyes towards him. "Hmm. I didn´t see my little brother in five years. They said they would take care of him, but then they wouldn´t let me see him."  
_

_"I´m sure he´s OK."  
_

_She was teary-eyed all of a sudden. "I don´t think he is. I think he´s dead. Why else they wouldn´t let me visit him?"  
_

_The little girl curled against his chest and sobbed silently. Had he had a free arm, he would have hugged her.  
_

_Then she stiffened. "I have seen what they did to some of the women they caught. They are just waiting for me to be old enough." A little palm cleaned away the tears.  
_

_She met his eyes. "Can you get me out of here? Make sure I am safe? Hide me?"  
_

_"I will do anything in my power to do that," said Mycroft gravely.  
_

_"There are only two men outside," she stated, left the room and came back with a knife.  
_

_  
_"Did you help her?" Lestrade asked.

"She was adopted by a Chinese family living in the U.S. uder assumed name. As far as I know, she is safe, though once we parted our paths we didn´t see each other ever again. She doesn´t even know my name."

Lestrade fell silent. After a minute, he asked again: "Why didn´t you deliver the ring?"

Mycroft chuckled mirthlessly. "There was no point in doing that. Adrian´s fiancée has found herself a new boyfriend two weeks after he left. She didn´t even inquire for his fate. Out of sight, out of mind. They looked happy enough with her new partner. There would be no use in guiltying her to leave him because of a dead man´s ghost."

The fire almost died out, even the last ambers were turning to ashes.

Mycroft got up and turned to leave. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mycroft." And than the house was silent again.


	5. Il gioco siciliano (Sicilian defense)

"Do you know what´s going on?" asked John as the raised voices from the study wouldn´t stop. Although no words could be distinguished, it was clear that there were two participants to this ´conversation´- one a woman at first trying to appease the situation but now resigning herself to simply barking short phrases at her opponent, and the other a man seething his words as if they were throwing knives.

Sherlock shook his head. "She arrived about half an hour ago, not long before you two," added Lestrade. In the last few days, Sherlock and John moved back to 221B to help Mrs Hudson fend off the neverending stream of curious public, though they still visited Mycroft at least every other day.

As for the DI, his flat was subjected to destruction via broken plumbing in the appartement above flooding it, and he accepted Mycroft´s offer to stay in his guest room until the damage was repaired. Which would be, judging by the rate the workers were operating on right now, sometime in the next century.

Greg guessed Mycroft has grown accustomed to not being completely alone here. It was true Mrs Klubkova still came occasionally to check on Mycroft, but as he was getting better the visits were more and more sparse.

Finally, the oak door was opened by Anthea, who smirked at the three of them ironically and stated: "He says you should go inside before you combust out of curiosity. Also, we probably need your help."

The three men entered the room after her, trying to examine the room as quickly and covertly as possible - Mycroft´s study was the only room in the house they were denied access so far.

"Sit," ordered Mycroft, gesturing towards the two chairs in front of his desk. Greg iniciativelly moved another one from the coffee table in the corner, so now he was sitting alongside John and Sherlock. We must look like three curious sparrows sitting on a wire, perched here like this, Greg thought.

"Have you ever heard of Charles Augustus Milverton?" Mycroft asked slowly and moved his assessing glare from one to another.

Sherlock was the only one who reacted. A Mycroftian raised eyebrow later, he muttered: "Who is he blackmailing now?"

"I don´t know how Greg, but I´m afraid I´m gonna need a little more intel," announced John.

Anthea readily obliged, while a silent conversation took place between the two Holmes´. "Charles A. Milverton, 46. A graduate of King´s College..." "Don´t tell me he studied the ´Global Ethics and Human Values´programme," Lestrade interjected, trying to lighten the mood.

John barked a laugh. Sherlock smirked. Mycroft´s face remained impassive. "I would prefer if you didn´t underestimate him. He used to work for us on a capacity to do with Foreign Affairs for several years."

"Don´t worry. He didn´t start to blackmail people until after he was dismissed," Sherlock announced laconically.

"I am aware. I admit I was fooled by him and his... social capabilities... but I dare say we would have noticed if he did that while in our service."

"Why was he dismissed?" John asked. Anthea sighed: "There were... some things pointing to him being in contact with James Moriarty."

"We should have dealed with him a year ago," said Mycroft.

"There was nothing we could do, sir."

"You think? It could have been over..."

"Not even you are omnipotent, nor you should be! Because you could have shot an innocent man!" Anthea was shooting Mycroft glares again.

"He was not innocent," stated Mycroft calmly.

"There was no evidence whatsoever," stood Anthea her ground.

"I am sorry to interrupt," two glares fixed on John Watson´s face, "but could we focus on the issue at hand?"

"He´s right, brother," supported him Sherlock.

"Yes. Sorry," apologised Anthea. "It seems he used his contacts in diplomacy and press to obtain potentially damaging information on various people..."

"What people?" asked Lestrade. He was answered by Mycroft: "Oil magnates, celebrities, politicians, members of the extended Royal family, the only connecting factor is that they are able to pay large sums of money."

"Why doesn´t the police know about this? I´m sure even I would have noticed something like this going on the grape wine."

"Because, Mr Lestrade," smiled Anthea slightly, "none of the victims called the police."

"They all paid?"

"Yes. Milverton is clever and knows how to do business. As soon as word came out that once you pay you really recieve the proof of your misbehaviour and the whole thing is forgotten, they don´t resist much."

"What did the media guy do wrong then?" asked Sherlock lazily.

"Media guy? You don´t mean..?" John stopped once he recieved a curt nod from Anthea. "Well, apart from the other bad things he did and Milverton took advantage of, he was late with his payment."

"Late?"

"Well, once the bank charges were taken, there wasn´t enough money for the payment order which was supposed to transfer the money to Milverton. Rotten luck, really."

Sherlock shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. "What has he got this time?"

Mycroft smiled rather sadly. "He discovered a goldmine."

"I know you are fond of metaphors, but could you finally leave the gravy and give me some facts?"

"All right. Two months ago, a British diplomat - a senior one - enjoyed an evening in his villa in one of the Arabian countries."

"Which Arabian country?"

"A friendly one. Very much so."

"So Milverton has photos of your ´diplomat´ shagging his secretary. Fire him. How is that your problem?"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. "The man in question was not having anything with his secretary. He is gay. So is one of the many princes of the Royal family of this unnamed country. Who was invited for tea that very evening."

"So you´re telling me Milverton has photographs of a Saudi prince being fucked by British ambassador? I love that!"

"He has a video recording of the events and I can assure you there is nothing funny about it!"

Sherlock was no grinnig wildly one of his not-so-much amused but very much fascinated smiles, eyes gleaming. "He is a genius!"

Greg mulled the information a little longer, but than said thoughtfully: "So, Milverton is going to blackmail the man..." "He already did that," Anthea interjected. "...then the British Government and once we would pay he would spill the information to the Saudis and they would pay because once it got out they would have a whole lot of problems amongst the other muslim countries. Am I getting this right?"

"No one named the family in question, but basically, yes."

John Watson raised his hand. "Sorry to interrupt, but isn´t it a bit of a risk? I mean, he would have two secret services wanting to shoot him now."

"Unfortunately, he has played the events so that in case of his sudden demise the information leaks out." Otherwise he would be already cold on a hospital slab, thought Mycroft.

"What do you want of me?" smirked Sherlock.

"Well, you seemed to get a little bored..."

"You will give me _carte blanche_?"

"Obviously. Just do not cause the scandal we are trying to avoid."

"John is going with me. You, Lestrade," he glared at Greg, "are staying here. You will stop my brother from overworking himself," he glared at Mycroft, "as he is still technically recovering.

As Lestrade wanted to protest, John silenced him by: "And in case we get into trouble, we will need someone not involved within the police force to get us out of the soup."

"Exactly," agreed Sherlock and left the room swaying dramatically. John left two steps behind him, with a tired: "Bye." and long-suffering expression.

Mycroft got up and watched his brother cross the road. Then he turned with a sigh.

"Anthea, I swear to God, if this plan of yours was a mistake, if something happens to Sherlock... I will kill Milverton. Evidence or no evidence."

"Yes, sir."


	6. He is as difficult as he is rare

The rest of the day passed in one big blurr. Mycroft was marching restlessly through his house like a caged lion, all the while opening a book and then throwing it away in frustration.

"I´m sure Sherlock can manage Milverton," Greg tried to calm him.

"This - it happened because I didn´t pay attention."

"You are not responsible for the idiot´s actions. You cannot manage people like pawns on a giant chessboard."

Mycroft turned and glared, but then his features softened a bit. "Of course not. Life is not chess. It would be stupid to have one such all-powerful, but extremely vulnerable piece as a king in real world."

"What game would life be, then, dare I ask?" smiled Greg.

"Go."

"Say it again?"

"Go. An old Chinese board game."

"How is it different?"

"In chess, you have different pieces, and their starting positions and power vary. In Go, all stones are basically equal and their importance is decided by their location on the board. Also, you are not trying to crush your opponent completely whatever the cost, but gain as much as you can with as little work as possible."

"Interesting," Lestrade grinned.

"What?"

"Nothing. You do realise that you are teaching me politics right now?"

"Are you planning to run for an election?" Mycroft was definitely more relaxed now.

"Nah. I would be a shit MP."

"Most of them are," smirked Mycroft, earning himslef a grin in turn. Then he went mad, apparently, because he heard himself saying: "And you certainly have a chance. All the ladies would vote for a Silver Fox."

"Shut up," Greg blushed. He was quite near to Mycroft now.

Reverse, reverse, reverse... You have already guiltied him into holding you, into kissing you, even. You should stop now, while there is still a chance. Stop making him pity you so much, stop telling him stories... There is no chance, and even if there were, if what you saw while your brain was muddled by medication was true and he really had feelings for you... You can´t do it to him. You can´t hurt him, and you always hurt those you care for in the end.

So he evades the kiss. So he runs to the kitchen pretending to make tea. He won´t do this, he can´t do this. He is the same Mycroft Holmes who managed to be on his own whole his life, after all.

 

_This has to be a dream, he realised. But it is a surprise. He hadn´t had dreams in decades._

_And, judging by the venue, this was not to be a pleasant one.  
_

_It was the hut. The one he has spent two weeks in. Being tied to the ceiling by his hands.  
_

_It even smelled like that. Like wetness and sweat and blood and piss and fear.  
_

_Someone entered behind him. He could feel his gaze and the draft of the door opening, but no sound. Weird. He remembered the real door was quite noisy.  
_

_"Hello, Mycroft," there is a hiss in his ear. No, it can´t be. He is dead!  
_

_But this is a dream, remember? Even dead men are allowed into dreams.  
_

_And then his father is standing in front of him, in his parade uniform, the medals gleaming menacingly in the poor light.  
_

_"Did you think you can run from me forever, Mycroft? Did you think you can escape?"  
_

_And than the hand stops smoothing Mycroft´s hair and starts beating. The face. Everywhere.  
_

_It hurts, of course. Even though he is aware that this is not real, that this is a dream and he is in fact alright in his bed, just unable to wake up, the punches hurt. But he can handle pain.  
_

_What is really confusing and scary is the other thing. He is alternating bodies.  
_

_One moment, he is being punched.  
_

_The other, he is the one punching.  
_

_Please, stop. Please. I am not like this, I am not... Please, I am not like him. Just stop this.  
_

_Than he realises that he is yelling that: "I am not like you!"  
_

_And he is back in his own dream-body, and probably not leaving it soon.  
_

_Siger Holmes is watching him with his cold, blue eyes. What does he see? Mycroft wonders. Does he see another himself, just as I am what he could have been? We are similar enough in our appearance.  
_

_A Small Tortoiseshell found its way inside. What is it doing here?  
_

_The butterfly sits on Mycroft´s shoulder, the one with the scar made by a bullet. It is crushed in Siger´s fist.  
_

_Then his father is gone and the small window in front of him lights up. He can see clearly outside now, except that there is no outside there.  
_

_The room behind the glass is very white and sterile. There is Sherlock. And John. Well, more like there is Sherlock fucking John, having him turned over a morgue slab.  
_

_You are really going mad, Mycroft.  
_

_A man is making photographs of his brother and his flatmate naked. Light flashes.  
_

_He is on the slab now. His brother is gone. John is gone. The photographer is gone.  
_

_Greg Lestrade is standing above him, murmuring something, but he can´t understand. Why can´t I understand?  
_

_And then the cop has a knife and the knife is plunged into Mycroft´s chest. He watches it being cut open. He watches his heart beating, until it is squeezed in Lestrade´s fingers and ripped out.  
_

_He´s yelling...  
_

_  
_He´s yelling.

"Mycroft, calm down. Mycroft!" Lestrade is having his hand on his chest, pinning him to the bed.

He has to get away, out of the bed, out of here.

Mycroft plunged sideways, falling from the bed, but scrambling to all fours and crawling away.

"Mycroft! What the hell!"

"Stay away!"

"Ok. I´m not moving, see? It was a dream, My. It was just a dream."

Greg was sitting on the floor next to the bed and watching Mycroft with a worried expression. Mycroft was hugging his knees, his back to the wall in the darkest corner of the room.

Why, _beat,_ won´t, _beat,_ my, _beat,_ heart, _beat,_ slow, _beat,_ down? 

There was no answer, but Mycroft knew that if he stayed, he would crumble completely. He would melt in the corner, and he couldn´t allow it, he can´t let Greg see him this weak again. He has to deal with this himself, he is obliged to deal with this himself, he cannot and will not burden anyone else again. He tried that so far and see what happened?

So he got up and moved passed Lestrade out of the room. Walking won´t be enough, Mycroft´s mind supplied. You need something stronger.

The first glass of brandy burnt his throat. The second one made its way all the way down to his stomach, but his hands still won´t stop shaking. When he is making his third glass, a soft touch nudges him to the shoulder.

"I think that is enough, My."

"Who are you? My mother?"

He downs it and continues making yet another. This time a firm hand grips his wrist to stop him.

"If you stopped, we could talk."

"About what?"

"Mycroft, I was woken by you crying out of your sleep," Lestrades gave him a meaningful look. "Talking about it might help."

"Help? You want to help, yeah?"

"Of course..."

"I will tell you something, then. Ever since you started _helping_ me I am getting _worse_."

"And you were fine before, eh? When you let me humiliate you in the car, when you almost killed yourself by alcohol and not eating and when you were risking your life at work?"

"At least I was stable!"

"Were you happy?"

The grip on the wrist loosened, as there was no answer coming. Mycroft used it to seize his glass.

"I need the drink."

"Dr Dhaliwal..."

"STOP THIS! Why are you even here? What are you to me? Is it bringing you joy to watch me shatter?"

Greg witheld his arm as if it were bitten. "What I am to you indeed." And he turned to leave.

Mycroft should really let him go. This is the better option, really. But his eyes were so hurt. He should really let Greg go...

"Wait! Please, wait!" He can hear the sound of the front door opening. He can see Lestrade´s silver head moving away from him.

Mycroft is trying to run, but it is somewhat less coordinated than usually. He needs to slow Greg down if he wants to catch up with him. I love you, he wants to shout, but he can´t. Because he has just hurt him. Because every time Mycroft is scared, he bites around him. Because he doesn´t want Greg to become another man he loves and whom he failed.

"My father was in the dream!" he shouts instead, trying to not think about how he was yelling andamantly that he was ´not like him´and how much like him he really was.

Lestrade stops in the doorway. It looks like it worked, looks like he has got his attention now. He walks over to Greg at a slower pace. They sand face to each other on different sides of the doorframe.

"I am sorry," Mycroft tries. "I shouldn´t´ve accuse you of... being responsible... for who I am. I guess I was just running away for too long... and things are just catching up on me..." He is suddenly feeling very dizzy and has to hold on to the doorframe to not fall. "I am so sorry," he repeats.

Just as Greg was nearing his face to his, a shot echoed in the street.


	7. The wish for healing...

A single shot echoed in the street. Two bodies fell on the ground.

The shooter ran away, Mycroft could hear the steps as he flied through the night. Or he was imagining it, whatever. All he knew was that now he was away.

He touched the other body lying alongside him. Greg grumbled something. There was blood on the tiles.

"Oh my God." Stop it, Mycroft, you need to keep calm. Do not... "Greg, are you okay? Are you hurt? Please, talk to me, please..." ...panic.

"Just a graze. Hurts like hell, though." The cop rolled on his side a bit to allow Mycroft to see a torn muscle on the inside part of his upper arm.

"Oh. You´re gonna need stitches."

"The shooter is gone?"

"Yes. He ran down the street. He won´t escape very far." Just as he finished the sentence, a large black car, which Greg recognised as one of Mycroft´s own, made its way in front of the house.

"Sir! Are you all right?!" Anthea yelled upon getting out of her seat. She was holding a gun.

"Greg needs to get to the hospital."

"Its nothing too bad," protested Lestrade weakly, as he was hauled up the floor and stuffed into the car. Mycroft joined him soon.

Suddenly, Greg is chuckling. "You should´ve changed."

"Oh." Mycroft suddenly realised that he was still in his pyjamas, barefooted, sweaty and utterly disshelved.  
 Lestrade had at least his jeans on, though Mycroft suspected there was no underwear underneath, and a T-shirt - he no doubt grabbed them as he was going to inspect what was wrong with the elder Holmes´sleeping.

"Don´t worry, sir. We are just now transferring a trustworthy physician from the hospital to your office to check both of you there. There is also a change of clothes prepared for you."

 

"What is it with you two getting shot?!" exclaimed Dr Dhaliwal as soon as she noticed the two figures making their way towards her.

"I am a policeman and he ´occupies a minor position in the British government´. Is that enough of an answer?" grumbled Greg.

"Well, I suppose James Bond was a civil servant too," commented Dr Dhaliwal and started to prepare her sewing kit on the mahagony desk. 

She worked in silence for a minute, interrupted only by an occasional involuntary flinch of Greg´s arm. "It should heal without much problem. Take the pills I´ve put there to prevent infection, but I think that as shootings go, this wasn´t a very successfull one."

"Do you have some sleeping pills with you too?" asked Greg.

"I can give you a prescription. Why? Having trouble sleeping?"

"Mycroft was having some bad nightmares, so I thought..."

She turned her eyes to Mycroft´s disshelved hair and rumpled pyjamas, which he still didn´t change, because the convoy bringing the doctor arrived sooner than was anticipated. Mycroft was aware that his back was probably covered in maps made of salty sweat. 

"Is that why you reek of brandy, even though I remember distinctly telling you to keep the drink away?" she asked.

"I am not having nightmares," he said. It wasn´t a lie. So far, he had just one. And when Dr Dhaliwal opened her mouth to talk, he added: "Nor have I trouble sleeping."

"Now that is just bollocks, My," growled Greg. The pain probably wasn´t helping him to keep his patience.

"I cannot prescribe him anything when he refuses to tell me anything about his problem," Dr Dhaliwal shrugged.

"Ok, I am having nightmares," said Lestrade sharply. "Awful ones. I am crying and yelling from my sleep, but I cannot wake up. Can you give me something to just knock me off?" He was glaring at Mycroft, who was petulantly refusing to meet his gaze.

"Yes, there is some medication, though I suggest talking about it with a specialist might help," Dr Dhaliwal accepted the game.

"Make sure it could be mixed with alcohol," Lestrade uttered. "It might be the only way how to get it into him."

But the phrase didn´t end yet and Mycroft was gone. He has left closing the door angrily, almost knocking Anthea in the anteroom, who was trying to ask him what happened. 


	8. Plans

**_Eighteen hours before_ **

"Is there any reason Mrs Hudson looks so pleased with herself? Because usually when she brings our shopping, she returns quite grumpy, which _of course_ has nothing to do with you." John has closed the kitchen door he used to enter the flat and than proceeded to the kitchen to check its gratifyingly full state.

"That would be the ring ," answered Sherlock lazily, not bothering to move from his position on the sofa.

"Excuse me? What ring?"

"The engagement ring on the coffee table."

Johns bewildered face appeared in the doorway to the living room. There was, indeed, an engagement ring perched in its open case on the coffee table.

"What would you need the ring for?"

"To propose, obviously."

"To whom, dare I ask?" John was now turning the case in his hands. It was a really nice ring.

"Well, Mrs Hudson is seemingly under the impression I am going to propose to _you_. Ridiculous, really." Sherlock leapt from the sofa and pocketed the case before John could say or do anything else. "Ellie is really a charming girl." He was now turned away from John, so the doctor couldn´t see the crooked smile on the dective's lips.

"You are going to propose? To a _girl_?"

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh in his deep amused  tones. "For a case."

"You are really proposing  to someone because of a case?"

"Not good?" Sherlock sounded unsure now.

"Not good? This is whole loads more than 'not good', Sherlock. This is incredibly insensitive at least."

"What if there were no other way?" said Sherlock and tried to walk to his room. John' s hand on his forearm stopped him.

"Is this for the Milverton case?"

In the next fifteen minutes, John was confronted with Sherlock's findings so far. Whereas the army doctor was sent as a ruse to attract the attention of any Milverton's men aware of Sherlock's involvement - it was a reasonable supposition, Milverton worked with Mycroft and was probably aware of the existence of the younger Holmes and his bloodrelation to the man who was 'the British Government' - Sherlock managed to talk and _flirt_ with a girl employed to take Milverton' s dogs for a walk.

Apparently, Ellie was a student of the LSE, who was trying to help her bank balance by working several jobs, including this one. She was planning to have an interview for a much better paid and certainly more pleasant job, but Milverton didn't allow her to have the evening off. "The pompous arse told me that if I couldn't do my work, I should stop completely. Like it's too much to ask to have one afternoon off after a year taking care of those fucking beasts."

So Sherlock, who introduced himself as a mature student of the same university, offered help. She would take the dogs out, he would take them from her as soon as she was out of Milverton's or his employee's sight, and walk them so she would be free to go wherever she wanted. Sherlock would give her the dogs an hour and a half later, and she would in turn deliver them to Milverton in time. Easy, really.

"I don't see how this helps to problem?" asked John.

"I won' t, of course, walk the dogs. I will return with them to Milverton's house half an hour after recieving them, claiming that I found them wandering the streets and thought I would ask in the neighbourhood for owner."

"Sherlock!"

"What?! Milverton is terribly attached to his Great Danes. I will get into the house to get a reward and once I am in, I will switch off the alarm."

"To get in again?"

"Obviously. How else am I going to get the video for Mycroft?"

"And the ring?"

"It was a backup incentive, if Ellie wasn't agreeable with the plan. I thought a bit of romance might tip the scales to my advantage. But it wasn't necessary."

John was rubbing the back of his nose now. "So in one big stroke, you will destroy one student's source of income, while breaking her heart in one go, then you plan to cross the law and burgle Milverton's house. Am I correct?"

"Well, it's unlikely Milverton would report this theft to the police. It would be rather 'the thief calls: Catch the thief!' dilemma, don't you think?"

"And Ellie? She's nothing?"

"She will get the job. I made sure of it. And, after all, I did not have to propose, so it was really nothing serious between the two of us," he gave John a cheeky grin. "I think I will enjoy this. I have never commited any serious crime, after all. Let's see how good I would be."

"I'm coming with you."

"I thought you would."

"Yeah, because you have me on a liege," said John sarcastically.

"No, because you're an adrenaline addict," was Sherlock's cheeky answer. Both started grinning at the same time.

 


	9. Blow-ups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the incredibly long wait. I really am.
> 
> I hope this chapter might sate your need for a follow-up. :D  
> Or a need for a good old cliff-hanger :D (evil laugh)
> 
> Keep reading, please, I promise the story will end once, presumably to your satisfaction.

John would have kicked himself. Just how did he always end up stuck?

It´s Afghanistan all over again, you idiot. _Of course_ John would follow the mad man into danger. _Of course_ he would end up hiding and praying to God to be allowed to continue his existence.

A long fingered hand touched his gently. John could fell Sherlock´s muscles contort slightly. Adrenaline. Well, at least it proves Sherlock is actually human.

As for John, of course he was full of adrenaline too. His whole body was ready to spring into action, to fight or, on this occasion, to take the stupid _stupid_   long-fingered hand and run for the hills. He just hoped that he could rely on the short list of well learned moves to get him out of there, because his brain right now was completely useless.

In fact, if someone asked John to transcribe what his brain was telling him right now, it would go somehow like this: _There´s a BIG gun. The guy in front of you is DANGER. The woman staring at the gun pointed at her with a slight smile is INCREDIBLY FUCKING INCALCULABLE DANGER._

Then the room blew up.

* * *

Sherlock was cursing under his breath. How did this go so WRONG? It should have been easy. The hacker he knew destroyed all files Milverton had outside his house, so any blackmail material the man had now was within the confines of this room. There were some two hours before he would be alarmed that his back-up files are gone. By that time Sherlock would have left with the originals. Simple.

In fact, Milverton shouldn´t have been home at all - surely he didn´t buy the extremely expensive tickets for _Lohengrin_ for nothing?

But he was here, in a frankly alarming shade of purple dressing gown, holding a gun and pointing it at the woman.

Said woman being a used-to-be famous journalist. Her reputation destroyed over some public outcry. Long red hair falling in locks over her not-so-much sane expression.

She was yelling at Milverton. Something about him killing her son by taking her source of income and preventing her from getting her offspring a better medical treatment.

Quite a sad story, actually. Although Sherlock wasn´t prone to sympathy towards the journalist folk, he would have felt sorry for her.

If she hadn´t brought a suspiciously full handbag with her. If she hadn´t kept her hand near an outline of a phone in her pocket. If she didn´t set the bomb threatening to kill the man Sherlock _loved_.

* * *

Officer Porter was sure he would never forget the sight.

A whole left half of the villa was gone. Beautiful, at least two hundred years old trees on that side of the building fallen. The bricks and shards of glass and tiles, which had once formed a house, quickly disappeared under a layer of thick white smoke.

As if the sight wasn´t surreal enough, a parrot flew out of the fire - an African Grey one - and sat, screaming in misery. At least it had enough of common sense to yell. Because Porter couldn´t. And what was worse, no one inside the house did.

Then a black car arrived. Sooner than any back-up Porter was desperately calling the support for, a black Audi stopped near the curb and out of it, a  man in his _pyjamas_ ran towards the destruction.

 


	10. Dum spiro, spero

Yes, definitely. It was Afghanistan all over again.

John has spent a lot of time in places like this. In fact, at least half of the times the British soldiers were indeed at the base, a sirene would scream and all of them would run like rabbits into a hole such as this - plain grey walls, lot of dust and a simple block of the concrete instead of a seat.

He remembered Thorton making jokes about his cleverness - he was the only one who ate his precious dessert before all other dishes, and while other soldier´s lemon cakes were left in the now bombarded mess, his one rested comfortably in Thorton´s stomach.

Few hours later, Thorton was dead. Shot in his abdomen, as the enemy managed to get inside the base, before they were fended off to disappear in the dust.

Shaking his head, John tried to scare those thoughts away. Because this was not Afganistan.

"John, are you alright?" whispered a decidedly unsure voice next to him. A minute later, tiny flashlight beamed in the darkness and moved all over John´s body only to settle near his chest, illuminating a self-satisfied smirk.

"What are you so smug about?" grumbled John.

Sherlock smiled more brightly. "You are all right."

 

* * *

Lestrade, of course, recieved the call soon afterwards. All hell has come loose, apparently. He could imagine quite vividly the inhabitants of a quarter described by real estate agents as "the calm oasis in the middle of London" running wildly in the streets and panicking about a suspected terrorist attack.

It might have even been one. Greg wasn´t sure to what lengths would the "friendly Arabian people" go to ensure the scandal didn´t happen. And if the Saudis had, indeed, anything to do with this, than God be with them. Because Mycroft looked like the sort of man who had the power to start wars. Especially if you hurt those he cared for.

But no, Greg shook his head. _Mycroft wouldn´t._ Not that he would restrain himself from finding out anyone who had anything to do with this, and dealing with them without remorse. But whole nations? No. He couldn´t believe _that_.

* * *

Officer Porter, although being dumbfounded and feeling as if thrown into a Monty Python sketch without warning, did what a good officer of the law does. Rule number one: Protect people.

So he leapt after the man, not sure if the driver who followed a few steps behind was trying to catch him or the _fucking idiot in pyjamas_.

It turned out a few moments later they were indeed on the same side, because the impressively bulky driver matched his pace with Porter and after some struggle they both managed to get the crazy guy away from the ruins and the fire and danger.

"Are you all right, sir?" asked the man, evidently not caring about small pieces of ash and dust catching on his black suit. "What the fuck do you think you´re doing?" spat Porter and he had to admit, it wasn´t very proffesional.

But the pyjama-clad git didn´t answer. Instead he stopped resisting completely, just sitting there numb in the midle of a lawn. In fact, it rather looked as if someone sucked the life of him, because he became unbelievably still and closed. If it weren´t for the a bit laboured breathing and the eyes roaming insanely over the used-to-be house, Porter would have thought he was dead.

He must be getting into shock, Porter realised suddenly, and watched, rather ashamed, that the driver must have figured it out much sooner. The man took of his jacket and threw it over the still form of his employer and then proceeded to talk to him gently: "Sir, let´s go, sir. I´m sure you would be better in the office, sir."

"Safe," the man said finally. Had Porter any doubts that this man was insane, he was sure now. "The safe," the man repeated.

Porter was really glad the first police cars arrived then.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the terribly delayed update, in fact, updates might take very long and be very irregular. But the story goes on :D


	11. Si vis amari...

"Mycroft!" Lestrade yelled as soon as he saw him. "Mycroft, are you all right?"

No. Of course he was not all right. He has brought his younger brother into danger. _Again._

But Lestrade seemed to get it. Because he stopped asking stupid questions. Because he sat on the grass next to him. Because he has thrown his arms protectively around Mycroft´s torso and started rubbing soothing circles on the pyjama-clad back.

Around them, people started to gather, some moving efficiently, seemingly knowing what they wanted to do, some just staring without understanding.

But Mycroft was safe for a while, safe from all that. He didn´t know how to tell Greg that, how to express how sorry he was. How do you express this horrible fear that you are lost despite every effort on your part? How to explain that you cared for so long that you forgot how it feels to _be cared for_ and it scares you to no end?

But there was no time. There was no time for this emotional nonsense now. Think, Mycroft. _Think_.

"Safe." He tried again. When did he lose the ability to speak properly?

"Yes, My. You´re safe," whispered Greg.

No! Yes! Well, of course he was safe, but it was not what he had meant.

" _The_ safe. There´s a giant safe drawn on the plans of Milvertons house. Availiable from the home office," breathed Anthea. "You think they´re there?"

Mycroft could only nod. He hoped they were there. _He would have tried to get in there._ But Sherlock wasn´t like him, as was proven each and every occasion Mycroft has tried to project his own thinking into his brother´s head. And he might not have had enough time. Or he just didn´t have to necessarily know.

But Anthea, and Mycroft´s driver, and the capable fellow, who stopped him from harm few moments before, were already taking hold of the situation, coordinating the fire fighters and everyone they deemed able to find the safe and open it.

Hope. Where did they get their hope from? Mycroft wondered.

But there was nothing he could do now, and the last reserve of logical reasoning finally overdrove the alcohol, and fear and all those stupid emotions, which were basically just stopping him from doing what was necessary.

"Shouldn´t you be helping those who need you?" he asked after a while, his gaze turning to the silver-haired policeman.

"I am," Lestrade announced and hugged a baffled Mycroft tighter.

* * *

"They are at 221B now, safe and sound. Well, apart from a few skratches." Lestrade helped himself to a glass of brandy. Mycroft´s one was filled, but he had little appetite for anything now. He was feeling a bit nauseous.

"You didn´t have to come back." He has sent Lestrade with his brother and John Watson to have them settled home. He suspected that they would get little sleep anyway - Mrs Hudson would try to drown John in tea and worry, and Sherlock was so wound up he would torture his violin for certainly a few hours - but he couldn´t deal with the guilt now.

Lestrade continued as if he hadn´t heard. "Sherlock said that I should tell you that all and every material Milverton might have gathered and which was outside of the safe was destroyed. He might have mentioned something very illegal about a hacker, but I wasn´t listening very intently," Greg grinned.

"And he also apologised profusely to John. That is a first. Well, probably a second, since I didn´t see them meet after he came back from hiatus, but still."

"John has been a very beneficial influence on my brother, yes."

"He also ordered me, and I quote, to ´tell that obnoxious fool that if this was anyone´s fault, it was certainly not his´. Assuming the ´obnoxious fool´means you, I agree that you should stop feeling personally responsible for all bad that ever happens to your brother."

Mycroft was silent for a while. How easy was life for the common people. They didn´t feel responsible, because they couldn´t see the connection between their actions and the big bad thing that happened in the news.

No, Mycroft. You are wrong. Lestrade is very intelligent, if this was really your fault, he would see that. And knowing you as he does, he wouldn´t have attempted to lie. Look at him - he is the figure of honesty. He really means what he says.

He is biased. He has feelings for you. But - why? Why would anyone care for Mycroft? 

"Go to sleep, My. It will make things better," a gentle voice said.

"You think?!" Mycroft couldn´t restrain himself anymore. "Do you really know me that well, then? You have no idea, do you? What I did, what I dream at night about? Just exactly how _wrong_ I am?!" He barely registered that he was standing now, Greg´s eyes wide in surprise - and was that fear?

"You think you can waltz into my life and just _decide_ I am going to accept your help, just announce to everyone within hearing distance that Mycroft Holmes is a decent man, without knowing anything, just on the basis of a belief. A stupid, _naive_ belief that everyone is at their core good, isn´t that true?

But let me tell you one thing, inspector - I have seen things you can´t ever dream of in your worst nightmare - and there was no good there, just darkness, just nothingness. _And I am one of those things._

So if you want to help someone, if you want to care, if you really feel the need to waste your time on someone - leave now, before you develop feelings too strong."

He was gasping now, utterly drained. He shouldn´t have drank all that brandy. But he shouldn´t have allowed Greg into his life in the first place, and if this outburst helps the policeman realise that, than the result could be considered positive. No, not positive. Necessary.

But Greg smirked. His face contorted into something both sad and victorious. "I have really gotten under your skin, haven´t I? Oh no, Mycroft, I am not going to believe in anyone´s claims about themselves without evidence. And I have read all the letters you two stupid Holmes´wrote to each other, without asking permission, because I am a nosey policeman. And I have listened to you, what you said and what you _didn´t say_. And I know withoud a shadow of a doubt, that I am not afraid of your darkness, whatever it is, whatever _you_ think it is."

Mycroft could barely breathe. His heart was painfully hammering in his ears. One part of him wanted to say something really awful, so that Greg would go, and the other wanted to kneel and cry. 

And then the bomb dropped. Greg looked into his eyes and proclaimed, quietly but with pure certainty: "I love you."


	12. Of children and emotion...

Mycroft did not know how he was feeling anymore. There was embarrassment, certainly - he did, after all, just run away from Greg and lock the door of his bedroom.

But there was also grief. Utter sadness. How could he be so stupid? How did he not see Lestrade´s declaration was eminent, after all that happened in the last months? How did he, the analyst responsible for the working of the whole British Government, fail to correctly analyse the danger of becoming dependant on Greg´s kind actions, soothing words, loyal personality?

And why did he feel like the emotions were going to split him in two? He was never good with feelings and frankly, right now, he was terrified. Because he could barely keep them at bay now. Because the raw feral beasts, whatever were their names, were banging at the door of his carefully built fortress. And its walls were built to protect him, and now they were weakened from inside.

And if he lets go, he knew he would be lost. Because he would have blurted all out, in a barely understandible, immature, embarrassing way. And everyone would laugh. Laugh at the child he really was, so small, so incapable in this field.

He wished he were a better man. Because that´s what Greg needs, a strong, attractive, loyal, self-assured individual, not the mess Mycroft was from the time he first remembers. But he was Mycroft Holmes, weak, weird-looking, with very flexible morals. And selfish, yes, that too.

Because he wanted Greg. Not necessarily in a sexual way, though now that it was on the table, Mycroft couldn´t deny he would not be adverse. But he needed someone to advice him when he needed it, and stay silent, when he wanted to think. He needed someone to keep him safe.

Was it so much? Perhaps it was time for this. Maybe, as it was obvious Mycroft wasn´t very good at taking care of someone, he might try being cared for. Oh Lord, why did he have to ruin everything? Before, Greg was everything Mycroft would have dared to ask from life - a friend. He didn´t need - did not deserve - anything more. But now, it was so complicated. So messy.

  
He was lost now.

* * *

You utter idiot! Why did you have to get so pushy?!

But he looked so... fragile, Greg´s mind supplied. He looked like a child who needs a damn long hug. 

Greg Lestrade remembered many cases, most of them were not very happy stories. And every time he came to contact with an involved child, too things happened - some of them were clingy, cried a lot, would not let go of your trouser leg. Those children were unhappy, yes, and pretty annoying. But they were still better than the other sort.

The other kind of children were the perfect witnesses. They would describe the perpetrator in keen detail, once you´ve gotten them to open up. They would remember things the first kind didn´t - because where the clingy kids were at the time of the crime bursting with fear and dread, these ones decided that since emotions weren´t helping, they would suppress them.

And Mycroft- well, Mycroft was a little like these kids. Oh no, on the surface, he could appear as a perfectly balanced, even jovial man. He could make small talk, smile at your jokes, brush off any kind of a jib at his being a bachelor.

But Greg was a very good judge of character, he would fancy. And ever since he first saw Mycroft, that night in the car after their ways split and he caught a glimpse of Mycroft´s face, he knew something was off.

And it didn´t take long to figure that Mycroft was incredibly emotionally starved.

But these were assumptions made yesterday, before he had screwed everything up. Because he has done things that were highly innapropriate. And he has destroyed everything.

He has destroyed their friendship, a thing Mycroft must have polished in his heart as a precious gem, by yelling at him, drunk and tired. By nagging him to change where Mycroft didn´t want to change, or certainly not quickly.

And he has sealed it all by the fucking declaration of his intentions. ´I love you´! How much must it have sounded like a frase!

One thing was certain. Mycroft has retreated to his room and hasn´t left, even after Greg said he was sorry. He was no longer welcome in the politician´s house, so the cop left.

He was so ashamed of himself that he would have rather buried himself alive than walked again between people. Or Sherlock. God, Sherlock! He would be able to deduce it all, including how he has let his cock govern his mouth.

The bell rang. It seems the world wants him to face his shame now. He just hoped it was not John, the guy has become quite protective of Mycroft after the latter saved his life, and had a very strong left hook.

It was not John. Nor Sherlock.

"Good morning, Gregory. May I come in?" asked the cultivated, but unusually quiet voice of Mycroft Holmes.


	13. Data

"Good morning, Gregory. May I come in?"

Greg was staring disbelievingly for good two seconds, before he has managed to stutter: "Yes... of course," and made way inside his little flat.

Mycroft followed the motion, feeling still absolutely unsure about the course of action he decided mere half an hour ago - but he knew that he should do something, should do it _now_ , before it is too late. So he decided. 

He even clothed into his pinstripe three-piece suit, trying to gain strenth out of this familiar act. But as he was observing Greg taking it in and the policeman´s thoughts racing behind those brown eyes, he immediately regreted it. Because right now, the suit was not strenthening his composure - it was weighing him down uncomfortably.

"Would you like something? Tea?" asked Greg, because he didn´t now what else to do and because he was trying to postpone the inevitable.

"Yes, please. Tea would be lovely," accepted Mycroft, because he did not know how to start.

It took good ten minutes before the policeman managed to put together the offered tea, and he found Mycroft in the living room, standing near the window, staring blindly on the busy street.

"So, both Sherlock and John are perfectly alright. Watson sent me a text this mornig," tried Greg - not very succesfully - to make small talk.

"Yes. Their medical files said that apart for some bruising and a few cuts, they are in perfect health."

"Good."

Silence. More staring out of the window. For a while, Mycroft´s gaze focused on one of the passer-bys, but then it traveled back to its default position.

"You know," Mycroft cleared his throat, " I don´t usually have dreams.  But sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I remember things. Never been able to delete anything, unlike Sherlock - though I think he might be overdoing this ability a bit." 

A pause. Where is he going with this? Greg wondered.

"Yesterday I had this memory - I forgot it years ago. I may have been four or five. In my father´s library. I must have read somewhere about Leonardo Da Vinci, I think, because I assembled a dozen of the most heavy books in the house and all large pieces of cloth I got my little fingers at - and tested their ability to be used as parachutes." A smile flickered on his face.

"I should say, most of them were useless. But one - a very heavy cloth, it looked like a long forgotten piece of a painter´s canvas - it worked. And for a short while, the book has been slowly descending through air - ending on the floor, inevitably, but in a much beter condition than the rest. And I loved it."

He turned, a determined expression on his face now. "It must be one of the first memories I have. But for so long, I could not remember. Mind is a curious thing. The beautiful things - they merge one into another, and the memory of a beautiful sunrise on a meadow would grow into one with all the meadows and sunrises you ever saw, until it is no longer there, could have never been there. Because how could something so lovely, so fragile disappear into nothingness, when the remembrance of all that stings and hurts and pains is forever very clearly burned into your forehead?"

He looked sadly in the direction of the tea assembly, avoiding Greg´s gaze.

"And this particular one, I did not remember. But I remebered, what happened after that. My mother, crying for no apparent reason when she saw the torn books and the mess on the floor. And father´s anger, his hissed words, his hand. But for a moment, when the book was slowly coming down and the cloth was full of air above it, nothing else mattered. No consequences, just the fact that it _worked."_

"I think this might be how Sherlock feels every time he solves a problem," Greg said half to himself.

"Yes, I hope it is true. But for once, I am not here to talk about Sherlock. I want you to know - whatever happenes next - that when Sherlock was gone, you were... I was falling and you were like _my parachute_ , if that makes any sense. You slowed me down, allowed me to take a ragged breath before I touched the ground, if you pardon me this metaphore.

You saved me, Gregory Lestrade. And as I said, whatever happenes next, I shall remain forever grateful for that."

He´s going to leave me, Greg thought. He´s breaking up - whatever we had together. He was going to blurt out something in this manner, before a tired voice silenced him.

" _Stop thinking._ Stop making assumptions with incomplete data."

"Why are you here?"

"Sit down, please. And listen. Whatever happens afterwards," and he rubbed a hand over his face. _He will leave, if you do this. You will be alone again_ , Mycroft thought.

"You have a right to hear this. So listen, please, and forgive me, if I am... if it stops making any sense. And hear it all, I beg you, I need you to listen to the end, even if... even if you don´t like it, don´t like me... Please."

So Greg seated himself and braced himself. It was apparent, now, that MYcroft still trusted him. He told him the story about his childhood, after all. So if you were to ask the policeman, he would put his money that Mycroft was trying to make another attempt to scare Greg off. He would explain, that he is wrong. He would try to anger Greg to stop caring. Stupid really.

But never in his dreams was Lestrade ready for this. Because Mycroft told him _everything_. About his mother and her death and how it felt. About his and Sherlock´s father, and how Sherlock was born and why. Somewhere along the time he was talking about the first day Sherlock was home, Mycroft´s tone of voice started to get desperate.

He continued in one long stream, apparently unable to stop now, pausing only to take a few ragged breaths in between paragraphs. He told Greg about Victoria, and his days at school, and basically about everything.

Mycroft Holmes, the man Greg thought lived and breathed as a giant enigma, started to enumerate every single time he felt guilty in regards to Sherlock, every single time he felt alone and confused, every time he was hurt. He told Greg all he could about his work, named all the people he killed in his life and all those he directly saved. ( **Author´s Note: If you want to know more about what Mycroft is saying and haven´t done so yet, read "Five times Mycroft failed** **Sherlock"** )

Every time he was talking about a percieved betrayal to Sherlock, an quick expression flickered over Mycroft´s features - it was a face of disgust over his own actions, Greg thought.

Finally, Mycroft managed to get to his role in the Reichenbach act, and further. Greg did not know how long he were talking, but the politicians voice was getting hoarse and it sure felt like centuries.

"When I woke up in the hospital... I felt... disappointed. But you were there, and you... I have never met someone who would give me hope. I would have been happy if you allowed me to clean your shoes, because your mere presence... makes things better. But I am not... good," and Mycroft was almost crying now.

"I always hurt those I... care about. And I do not want to. Hurt you, I mean. So I thought... you have the right to know. All of it." The suited man started fumbling now, and looking everywher but Greg.

"Ehm..," he cleared his throat, "that´s all there is. All the data. I should leave... give you time to make conclusions... I am sorry if I made you think I were better than I am. _I´m so sorry_." And Mycroft started to make his way to the door.

 


	14. Resolution

So here it was. He is alone again. Mycroft supposed he should have become used to it after all those years. He would do what he always did - rationalize these feelings away and lock them within the deepest confines of his mind. And hope that the walls will be strong enough.

He came here barring on mind that this scenario could happen. It was even the probable course of action. But somewhere on the way to the policeman´s flat, Mycroft´s mind decide that for once he should believe the hope, which was tiny and unsure hiding between the memories of all the smiles and the few luxurious kisses he was given by Gregory Lestrade.

But when he started telling the story, it started to be certain there was _no way_ he could admit all the things he had done and not lose Greg´s affection.

It was all wrong, even wronger than usual. When the stream of memories begun to leave his mouth, he immediately started to worry about it not being precise, about it sounding too much novel-like. He was trying to stay objective, but with every sentence it was getting harder and harder.

 _Well, what did you expect barring your "soul" would feel like?_ added the familiar voice in his head, sounding vicious enough to belong to his father.

As he was telling what he had came here to say, Greg was getting more and more motionless and closed. He did not say a word, and it wasn´t because he wanted to stay true to what Mycroft asked him to do - he did not make any moves as if he almost said something but then thought better of it. He just sat there, on the ridiculously big armchair in a cramped living room, with an empty gaze and not a muscle moving.

Mycroft has never seen him like this. But the conclusion was inevitable - _he has seen me for what I am_. He must be disgusted. Angry at himself, at his ability to judge character correctly abandoning him. Gregory Lestrade would never want to see him again.

The government official only hoped that Greg would be able to find it in himself to still collaborate with Sherlock and not to blame the younger Holmes for the sins of the elder.

So when he stopped, and not a sigh disturbed the eerie silence that fell on the room, Mycroft figured it was time to leave.

All those hopes for a _normal_ life were false. He would make do with ashes of what could have been, of things he himself killed an buried. He would keep surviving until the bitter end. He supposed it wouldn´t take long, what with his extensive alcohol consumption and the state of his liver. Dr Dhaliwal probably wouldn´t be too surprised.

"Ehm..," he broke the silence then, "that´s all there is. All the data. I should leave... give you time to make conclusions... I am sorry if I made you think I were better than I am. _I´m so sorry_."

_I am so sorry I have no idea how to make you happy. I am so sorry I almost took you with me into my personal hell. I am so sorry I made you think I were a good man, when in fact..._

_  
_"Where do you think you´re going?" he was stopped by the voice of Greg Lestrade. He just wanted to leave without scenes. He just didn´t want the policeman seeing the tears that were embarrasingly streaming all over his face.

"My place," he answered as steadily as he could manage.

"Aren´t you gonna wait to know what conclusion I have drawn from your... data?"

"And have you reached your conclusion already?" Mycroft still had no intention to turn.

"I have supplementary questions."

"Ask, then."

"If I were to come to 221B right now, unannounced, what would Sherlock be doing?"

Mycroft did not understand the question, but of he had few more moments to hear the beautiful voice, then he would take them. "He would be with Dr Watson."

"Shagging, most likely?"

"Making love, yes, probably. Where is this going?" Mycroft turned, maneuvering his body into shadow, so that the wetness of his face wouldn´t be so prominent.

"So, your brother is a succesful detective, the best there is, helping to both the police and any poor soul getting into a real mess. But not only that, he also has a dedicated partner, friends, a flat. He is independent on any authority but himself and the wish to make the man he loves content. Is he happy?"

"What is the point of this..?"

"Is he happy?"

"Not because of me."

"And there you are wrong." Lestrade took a few steps toward the dark sillhouette of Mycroft. "Next question. Do you know how many criminals I have arrested that later at court blamed their crimes at their parents abandoning or abusing them?"

"But..."

"Shut up. Do you know how many people crumbled when exposed to half the things you just told me here? Strong people. _P_ _eople_ _who thought they were good."_

Silence fell again.

After a moment, the policeman rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Look, Mycroft, I am glad you decided to tell me all this. I just don´t know why. So please, tell me, were you trying to scare me off again?"

"No. I told you why I did this. I wanted you to know everything there is."

"About yourself?"

"Yes."

More silence.

"What did you think would happen?" asked Greg again, and Mycroft had was very impressed that Lestrade´s voice was completely levelled.

"What is happening. You telling me that you were wrong telling me you loved me, because you loved a phantom that never existed. I did not expect this coversation to take so long, though."

"Do _you_ love _me_?"

"... it does not matter."

"I shall be the judge of that. Do you love me?"

"I think... yes. But... as I said..."

"All right. I was born in Weston-Super-Mare. I have an older brother Sam, who now lives in Spain, and had a younger one - Charlie, who died when I was eighteen because he experimented with drugs and turned out to have some heart problem no one new about until it was too late. 

The first memory I have is of a wasp stinging me to my tongue and the way to the hospital after that. I might have been about four and never eaten ice-cream since..."

"What do you think you´re doing?"

"Reciprocating. Relationships should be based on sharing."

"What relationship are you talking about?"

"Don´t play stupid. I love you, you love me. Easy as that."

"But..."

"No buts. I know what I am looking for, Mycroft. I am a divorced cop, remember? And I know I want you, now more than ever. Because you are one of the bravest man I ever had the honour of meeting. The things you have done - it happens, My. It certainly explains a lot of yours and Sherlock´s relationship, and those things - they are not easily brushed off. But they are mistakes - mistakes happen and can be repaired.

And they can certainly be forgiven, Mycroft. But I am not the one to forgive you those, and Sherlock already did. I know the memo might have been lost while it was getting to you, so I am telling you now - Sherlock loves you and holds no grudge against you anymore.

Come here, you stupid sod."

And he kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not the last chapter. :D


	15. Sharing

Despite everything he said or pretended to claim, Mycroft´s body language screamed fo Greg for at least the last fifteen minutes. And now, when the DI finally felt the long lean body press against him and the mouth open wide, so much that he thought the diplomat was trying to swallow him, he couldn´t help the warm feeling of victory.

And then, most rational thoughts left Greg´s mind, to be exchanged by swirling of tongues, warm hands roaming on his jaw and testing the length of his stubble, long fingers tugging his hair and on one memorable occasion a clash of teeth, and it _still_ felt awesome.

"Sorry," mumbled Mycroft breathlessly and started to disentangle his limbs from the policeman´s. "´M okay," Greg caught those lips with his again.

But then he could see the walls closing in Mycroft´s face again. And he could not stand it. "You think too much."

"I´m good at it," declared Mycroft rather petulantly.

"Wanna know what I´m good at?" Greg winked.

"Not listening a word I say?"

"Sherlock is better at this."

"Making clever remarks?"

"I will remember you called me clever."

"I did not say _that._ You are, though."

"Says the man with the highest IQ in the Great Britain."

"What does IQ have to do with cleverness?"

"Am I due to listen a detailed lecture about how it measures only certan kind of human abilities to think?"

"Not interested?" Mycroft smiled wickedly.

"Not particulary."

"Lie on the sofa then."

"What for?" inquired Greg as he obeyed.

"I want to see you," the elder Holmes smiled again.

What exactly he meant by that was evident in a few moments. Because Mycroft knelt next to the couch and started to open Greg´s shirt.

"Mhmm," he muttered appreciatively and begun to touch lightly. Nipples. Yes. The outline of ribs. Collarbone. At first he would just softly brush one of his long fingers over it. When that was done, he started to trail soft kisses and his hands started to move with more force and less finesse everywhere he could get.

As much as Greg enjoyed it, he felt that there were some parts of his body more in need of _Mycroft_ than his belly button. He must have made his frustration known, because in a flas of a moment he was studied by a pair of two very large and _impossibly innocent_ blue eyes.

"Want to..." Mycroft gave him a peck to the edge of his mouth, "...remember..." a little of teeth on Greg´s lower lip, "...all of you..."

"Are you... filing me?" Greg finally managed to say as those lips moved to his neck. He felt a strand of soft hair tickle his cheek and almost started to cry with joy.

"Hmmm. You´re... a fine specimen."

The policeman grabbed those hair at that and crushed their mouths together. He realised that the way he was thrusting his tongue into the soft-spoken mouth was incredibly greedy, but he did not have the power to care. He also managed to get Mycroft´s jacket off and the damnable waistcoat open while he was doing so.

While Greg had to stop and pant breathlessly for a while, Mycroft seemed to be far less bothered, as he enthusiastically continued to nip on Greg´s ear, temple, neck and even Adam´s apple.

"Mycroft! Want you!" There was no way Greg would be able form a more complete sentence. But instead of draping his form over Greg´s, instead of giving Greg more, Mycroft disappeared completely.

Startled and disappointed, the policeman turned his head minutely to meet Mycroft´s gaze again and almost loose it. For the look in those blue orbs was so open they seemed to glow in the dark. Two eyes left all those steely greys aside and presented to the world blue as happy as a summer´s sky and as deep as the ocean.

With a child-like grin akin to those given by a five year old after doing something good, such as sharing a piece of cake with their friend, Mycroft moved those long fingers to the buttons of his shirt and started to open them.

Slowly the elder Holmes started to remove his clothing. After opening his shirt, getting rid of the waistcoat and sliding his braces from his shoulders, he knelt on one knee and started to undo his shoelaces.

Greg moved from his lying position to sit on the couch so as to not strain his neck overly; as soon as Mycroft caught isght of this, he moved minutely nearer and with his hand still playing with the leather shoes, he lowered his face to kiss Greg´s straining erection under the layer fabric.

Shortly, the policeman closed his eyes, but nothing more was happening, so he opened them again to hear Mycroft say wickedly: "It would work better if there weren´t so much clothing."

After that, both man sprung to action, so the rest of their clothes was on the floor in record time.

"You are beautiful," declared Greg just as Mycroft locked his thumbs in his pants, ready to take them off. A blush started to spread on the diplomat´s face and Greg was suddenly very angry, angry at all those who never told something like that to this brilliant man, so that they made Mycroft not quite believe it when he, Greg, said it now; and angry at his twenty something himself for not telling it either.

But finally, they were both naked - well, apart from Greg´s socks, and he wasn´t particulary bothered about that. Mycroft resumed his inspecting of the whole of Greg´s body, trailing his fingers just about everywhere. He blowed slightly at Greg´s thigh and laughed softly at the policeman´s reaction. He devoured the other´s nipples with a careful play of capable fingers, sucking, kissing, adding some teeth and tongue.

But in the end, even Mycroft started to be impatient enough to drape his body over Greg´s; and merely the touch of the soft skin, even with the bothering feeling of the rest of the bandages, felt fantastic. And when Mycroft moaned when Greg pinched his nipple, Greg found himself swearing to whatever deity listening at the moment: _Never. No more scars, I will protect you. I will make you safe._

But these thoughts were soon covered of the feeling of pure bliss, as he felt Mycroft quiver under his hands. He was sure to make some bruises, but if anything, it seemed to cause Mycroft reciprocating more eagerly.

He lost count of the number of kisses, both deep and long and short and feather-like, he was given. He absolutely adored having Mycroft´s hand tugging at his hair. And when the other one _finally_ moved to his crotch and touched the straining flesh here, Greg was almost done.

"How..," breathed Mycroft and Greg knew what he wanted to ask and didn´t want to decide. "Sharing," he muttered silently, as a thought miraculously appeared in his hormones-addled brain.

Propping Mycroft _just so_ he moved both their bodies to lie on their side, facing each other, and after some fumbling, he even managed to find his equilibrum so that he wasn´t falling over the edge of the sofa.

Mycroft didn´t seem to get what he was trying to do, as he continued to try and climb over Greg´s body, but after the policeman´s steady arms returned him to the previous position, he waited obeyingly, licking at Greg´s neck.

Both man hissed in unison when Greg´s calloused hand took hold of both their erections and started to rub them one onto another. Bringing himself off succesfully, Greg continued to work on Mycroft, enjoying the feel of the other´s heartbeat, and listening to Mycroft´s uneven breathing and the strained sounds he made on top of his own ecstatic sensation. It didn´t take long before they were both laying side by side in a sticky puddle of their own semen.

Greg would have been ashamed at ending what started like an incredibly tender exploring of each other´s bodies so crassly and animally, if the last thing Mycroft muttered before drifting off to sleep wasn´t: "Good. Feel... good."


	16. Think in the morning. Act in the noon.

If Mycroft were indeed as obtuse as to install hidden cameras _inside_ of the homes of the few people he considered important - Sherlock, John, Greg and Anthea - it might have caught about six hours video of two forty-something men ( _still_ fortysomething in Greg´s case) hugging in their sleep on a cheap cauch.

It would have been the most beautiful movie he has ever seen, the type you would watch when everythingseemed worthless and you needed a night of eating ice-cream, watching sentimentalities and doing nothing.

But Mycroft was specifically denied eating anything sweet after five o´clock, as he was still on diet, technically. And doing nothing wasn´t Mycroft´s style of dealing with problems. He was always afraid it would simply give him more time to ponder over all those what-ifs and could´ve-beens if he remained unoccupied.

And although Mycroft wasn´t usually prone to emotions, he wasn´t sure he could manage _that._

Regardless of all these facts, he could only imagine at which part of the night did his and Greg´s legs become intangled like this and whether Greg´s hand on his chest could indeed feel the change of his heart´s pace as he woke up, even if the policeman was still in deep slumber.

What´s the time? Mycroft wondered. It was certainly the middle of the night, or more like a _very_ early morning. What was the quote? Oh, yes: _Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep at night._ Mr. Blake probably wasn´t aquainted with his dietitian.

As for his mind, it _definitely_ decided it was morning already, because all those little cogs and wheels in his brain started to awaken. And started to sort all those animalistic experiences from yesterday. Not that they weren´t enjoyable.

 _Sharing._ That was what Greg said. He only hoped that yesterday´s evening felt as good to Greg as to himself.

But now, there was time to make order in all this.

One, Greg loved him. Mycroft loved Greg. He only hoped he sorted that emotion right.

But it should be that, shouldn´t it? The feeling _safe_. The want for _more_. The silent awe of all those character trades Mycroft lacked and Greg shared _so freely_. The desperate screaming to _PROTECT_ in his mind.

Two, he has done everything he could have objectively done to warn Greg off. He has told Greg everything he knew of himself, everything he considered himself. Greg accepted it, accepted _him_.

Three, Greg not only listened to his life, he wanted to tell him about his one. He wanted to share. That felt like unacceptable prying. Mycroft already knew far too much about the DI from his files and had access to many private information. But on the other hand, it felt like it meant Greg wanted a _relationship_ \- a long-term one, and he wanted to base it on mutual trust.

He will have to talk about it with the policeman. That might help to make some order out of this mess of emotions, which was a too tangled web to be inspected by objective analysis properly.

_But that is it, isn´t it? You already trust him enough to uncover this to him. Your inability to deal with emotions._

_Well,_ Mycroft replied to that unpleasant voice in his head, _I think he might have already figured I am lacking in that regard._

_Do you think he would love a man-child?  
_

_I know he does._

_  
_It was true. But irrational. Although... where words might be bent and lies might be told, Greg couldn´t have faked that look of enjoyment when Mycoft let his childish desire _to eat Greg whole_ reign. Well, there is at least some use for that small part of him, then.

"How long are you up?" Greg asked some hour and a half later.

"A short while."

"Liar. I can see you are at your full thinking mode. Not even Holmes is that alert half an hour after he woke up."

"I didn´t want to get up."

"Didn´t or couldn´t?"

"I admit my ass being glued to your sofa with our dried semen might have played a role in it."

"Oh damn."

"I will have it dry cleaned, if you wish. Or you could buy a new one."

"We."

"What?"

" _We_ could buy a new one. If you didn´t change your mind about _thinking of loving me_ from yesterday."

"I didn´t. Is your shower big enough for two?"

"We can squeeze in."

"Good."

* * *

"That was... unexpected."

"Surprised?"

"A little." Greg loved it. Loved the way Mycroft face went from blank to thoughtful to wicked and than he just leaped at Greg.

"Did I hurt you?" Mycroft asked worriedly as he remembered the loud thud as Greg´s body banged into the glass.

"I´m not that fragile, My."

"Were you ever really scared of me?" asked the diplomat suddenly.

"What do you think?"

"Well, I blackmailed you to give Sherlock access to cases. The point rather was for you to be scared."

Greg laughed, but there was sadness too. "I was scared a bit. But more of what you could turn into if Sherlock relapsed, than of what you were then. And I helped him also because of my own experiences."

"Your brother?"

"Yeah. One foolishness - and it´s done. And Sherlock back then - he did a lot of foolish things."

They were sitting now in Lestrade´s kitchen, Lestrade in jeans and a T-shirt, Mycroft in yesterday´s trousers and shirt, drinking tea and having some biscuits, just as pale pink light started to shed its Shadows onto London.

"Beautiful, isn´t it?" Greg mused and yawned. "It´s good you woke me up at three thirty after all. It´s weird they didn´t call me to work, though. There must be horrible amount of paperwork to do about the bomb at Milverton´s."

"Others are as capable as you in filling forms."

"I am not going to comment on this, OK?" Greg grinned.

"They will probably want you in the office in a few hours." Mycroft informed him softly, hating to disappoint the cop.

"Well, I guess crime never sleeps."

"There isn´t anything _too time consuming._ "

"You checked already?"

"What did you think I were doing with the phone?"

"Playing angry birds? Or minesweeping?"

"Very droll, Gregory. Your morning wit is well-known."

Greg smiled happily. He looked like a thought lingered behind his eyes, but he hesitated to say it.

"What is on your mind?"

"Are you always this... human... after a shag?"

"As opposed to me being an android under normal circumstances?"

"I didn´t mean it like this."

"Yes, you did. It´s all right. And the answer is no. It depends on the nature of the... act... and the participant."

"Does it mean I were good yesterday?"

"Don´t be crass, Greg. It is unbecoming to ask such questions."

"I enjoyed it. Did you?"

Greg guessed that what happened afterwards was to be his answer. Because Mycroft met his gaze, raised both his eyebrows sceptically as if to say: _Do you really need to ask?_ and than jumped from his seat towards Greg for a very deepand very long kiss. Well, snog really, but Greg thought Mycroft wouldn´t approve of the choice of the word.

* * *

It was half past twelve, when Mycroft ascended the steep stairway in 221B. Greg was at work, agreeing to go only after Mycroft promised him that he would await him at his house after work for dinner, and Mycroft had a thing to do.

He chose this moment because he saw John Watson leave the flat approximately ten minutes ago to get some food. As much as he admired the ex-soldier, it was really not very bright to check if there is something edible after you realise that there is time for lunch and you are, indeed, hungry. But it suited his purpose.

"What do you need?" said Sherlock instead of a greeting.

"Talk. Do you have tea or have you run out of it too?" asked Mycroft and not really awaiting an answer proceeded to kitchen.

"A _long_ talk then."

"Lengthier than usual, yes. Do you want a cup?"

Some minutes ago the brothers sat into their respective armchairs facing each other.

"Are you gonna tell me the secret of why you´re here, brother?"

"Firstly, I came to apologise."

"The explosion wasn´t your fault. I should´ve realised the journalist was a dangerous aspect..."

"Not only for that."

"Oh? For what, then?"

"For... everything. Everything that happened between us. I know I never could be enough for you, and never were. But I regret..."

"Stop."

"Sherlock, please..."

"It´s my turn to apologise."

"For what?"

" _For everything."_

"Don´t be silly."

"I´m not. You´re forgiven."

Mycroft had to look away to hide the tears starting to form in his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.

"Oh, for God´s sake don´t cry! When did you became such softie?!" was Sherlock´s outraged reaction. "What was the other thing?"

"A request."

"A case?" Sherlock´s eyes glowered.

"No. I will have a look, though, and send you something if the Yard doesn´t have something by the end of the week."

"What, then?"

"I want you to protect someone."

"So it _is_ a case!"

"Let me finish! I want you to protect Lestrade."

"From whom?"

"Me."

"What the hell´re you talking about?"

"Oh surely you hadn´t missed the signs?"

"You mean the fact that you had sex last night? I prefer not to think about it."

"I was with Lestrade."

"Mycroft, if you dump him and he stops giving me cases..."

"I love him."

The look of pure disbelief was shorter than Mycroft would have thought.

"Good. Why do you want me to protect him, then? You have plenty of _minions_."

"I do not have a sterling history as far as relationships go. In fact, I always end up hurting those I care about. I want you to stop me, when ther is danger I would hurt Greg. I want you to help him, when it could not have been prevented. If I do something bad, I want you to help him leave me and help him get out of my reach."

"You´re crazy."

"Sherlock..."

"He´s an adult. If you do something so utrageous, he is able to leave you on his own."

"Our mother wasn´t able to leave _him_ ," Mycroft mumbled and Sherlock shut up and watched his face solemnly.

"I don´t pretend I understand," the elder Holmes continued, "whether it was sentiment, or the happy memories of him, or brainwashing her enough. But she stayed. And as I do not understand, I cannot guarantee I wouldn´t do the same and manipulate Greg to not being able to go."

"You´re not like him, Mycroft."

"How would you know?"

"I´m your brother."

Mycroft sighed. "Still."

"I promise I will protect Greg. He is my friend. As is John. And as are you. Got it?"

"No."

"Good. John says that as long as we don´t fully understand our feelings, they are true."


	17. Eat in the evening...

"Oh, that is just _adorable."_

"What is it, Mira?"

"Oh, just a patient of mine. Well, _two_ patients."

"Any trouble?" asked the tall, green-eyed man sitting in the chair opposite to the woman. He sounded annoyed - he has booked this table months in advance and now he did not have the woman´s full attention. Instead, she was _staring_ somewhere behind his left shoulder. He suppresed the urge to have a look at this object of her focus.

"Well, one of the two things will happen: either one of them gets shot in the next minute," she waited patiently for said amount of time, eyes trailed at her watch and mischevous sparkles in them, "or we will be witnessing two messed-up guys snogging each other like madmen," her partner turned exactly the moment the older of the two men leaned across the table, so he missed Mira´s grin. "Right now."

"Enjoying the view?" she smirked as her tall partner watched fascinatedly what was happening in the far corner of the restaurant. He didn´t feel as they should be more discrete - their table was, after all, in the corner and covered from all sides by paravans and flowers in pots - except, of course, their direction.

"I stopped being hungry."

"Oh Chris, I hope you do _not_ have problem with them both being guys," she warned.

"No. I don´t want a steak anymore. I want _you."_

"Nutrition is important, Your honour," Mira´s tone was teasing again. "I should know. I am a doctor, studied a medical school and all."

"Well, Doctor Dhaliwal, they didn´t teach you of the importance of occasional good shag?"

"We could ask them to pack our dinner with us."

"Brilliant idea, love."

* * *

"Greg, stop. We are at a restaurant."

"And what? I love you the same in the restaurant as in your house."

"I hope you do _not_ want to shag me here. I am not _that_ perverted."

"Well, we could slip under the tablecloth. It is long enough," Greg mused with a fake-wondering voice.

Mycroft decided to play along: "They would clean our food away if we both disappeared."

"Well then, _I_ could disappear under the table and _you_ could _try_ to sit still."

"Eat your schnitzel, it will go cold. I can´t believe you forced them to prepare you this abdomination of food, even though it wasn´t on the menu."

"What´s wrong with it? It´s Austrian speciality."

"It is covered with breadcrumbs. It is basically a posh version of hot dog. And as you are eating both potatoes and the bread-covered meat, they are basically forcing you to eat two side dishes, so the meat is present at the sad ratio of one to two."

"Says the man eating a salad. You just don´t like it, admit it."

"And you have to admit there are certainly more interesting ways how to prepare veal."

"All right. What foods do you like? Like ten things you could eat all your life and would never grow tired of it?"

Mycroft didn´t hesitate a second: "Apples. Cherries. Bread and butter. Greek yoghurt with honey and wallnuts. Fried salmon with potatoes. Ratatouille. Wallnut ice-cream. Roastbeef. Lemon cake. Tenderloin with cranberry sauce. That sort of thing."

"I am happy to inform you that I can cook fifty percent of those dishes, Mr. Holmes."

"I look forward to the day I see you make home-made ice-cream," Mycroft grinned.

"I can´t make _that._ But I make a passing ratatouille, mix your yoghurt, roast your beef slowly while sallivating in front of the oven, have enough ability to put some butter on a piece of bread and learned to make a lemon cake, since it was my father´s favourite and I always helpd mum make it when it was his birthday."

"Brilliant. I was worried you would attempt to cook apples or cherries. You will make a good wife." As soon as the words left Mycroft´s lips, he would have slapped himself, but the policeman took it in good humour: "I can cook as long as you clean the dishes, honey."

"We´ll see."

"Can _you_ cook?"

Mycroft shrugged: "It´s creative, so it´s fun. But I don´t have much time for it."

"Brilliant. So when we were staying at yours, you, me, Mrs Klubkova could cook and yet we allowed John Watson take care of our provisions for _days_. Do you know I haven´t eaten curry since?"

"I suspect Sherlock is able to cook too."

"Not surprising. He´s a good chemist, after all."

Mycroft speared an olive on his fork and asked carefully: "Were you close with your mother? Since you were cooking with each other..."

"She´s still alive. But we used to be much closer."

"Oh. I´m sorry."

"Don´t be. Not your fault. When Charlie died... things got just wrong. She thought I should´ve known he might be taking something. Since I was so keen to be a cop, rambling all the time about an excursion we took to a rehab facility or what sergeant Blake - a family aquaintance and a sort of a kid hero of mine - said. And she wasn´t wrong."

"Greg..."

"Sherlock would have known. You would have known, from one look at him."

"You don´t have to be like him or me. Or shouldn´t be."

"But you are so brilliant at this!" Greg answered petulantly.

"Yes. Because we are useless at all the others. Important things. Like affection."

"You´re not useless, Mycroft..."

"Oh yes, I am. But back to deductions - can´t you see we learned that because we had to? Because we felt... in danger? And we were trying to understand what might happen next and minimise the damage? No lesson or education can ever motivate you enough to hone that ability to such extent."

"You say that I didn´t see because I were too happy?"

"Yes."

Greg returned his focus to the schnitzel. "It does not matter now."

"I love you."

Greg´s head snapped. "Why did you say that?" he chuckled.

"Seemed like a good thing to say."

"It is. It certainly is."


	18. Still

When Greg woke with faint memory of curling next to a beautifully warmed-up and ruffled body of one Mycroft Holmes and a more distinct fear caused by the absence of said body lying next to him _now,_ it must have been about ten already.

With a grunt, he stood up and after three or four steps realised that he was walking the exact opposite way than the bathroom was, and that it was caused by him not being in his house but in a overly large house Mycroft inhabited.

As soon as he managed to relieve himself and cleaned his face, Greg continued downstairs to find out if he was indeed left alone in a big house. He wasn´t.

There were few sights Greg ever saw that were so beautiful he wanted them to stay there forever to be taken out and relived whenever a particularly gruesome triple murder done by a blond curled and angel faced child happened. This was one of them.

Because the French door from the dining room was open and soft breeze came through as a beautiful day was starting. Because through this he could see a table set on the garden, with two simple chairs, a huge pot of tea, basket with fresh bread and all things you could imagine to put on it; including cheese, ham,  jam, vegetables and fruits.

To Greg´s right near the table sat Mycroft. His legs were stretched so far that for a while Greg wondered that the next time he has an opportunity he has to measure _how long exactly_ are they, because it wasn´t possible that they were so nice. Said legs were covered by plain light-coloured trouser, but from beneath them, two bare feet touched the grass lazily in a lazy, out-of-mind fashion.

As for the part of Mycroft from the waist up, he had a dark blue polo-shirt on and seemed to be completely focused on a small volume sitting on his lap.

“What´re you reading?” asked Greg when he danced slowly to sit and have breakfast and noticed Mycroft´s eyes following the movement.

“Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse.”

“German, is he?”

“Your powers of observation are astounding, Inspector.”

“Detective Inspector, laddie,” Lestrade grinned. “Is it fun? Is there a lot of action?”

“Yes, it´s fun, and no. But it is very interesting, even if it is lacking chases on the rooftops, shooting guns or a lot of running.”

“Oh don´t say you don´t like legwork even if you just read about it?”

Mycroft grinned. “I´ve decided to not hear that. Now eat your bread, you have honey dripping all over you.”

“Oh shit.”

Mycroft just smiled pleasantly and watched as Greg started to lick the honey from the edges of his bread and when it didn´t help, he just stuffed the whole slice into his mouth and started to chew carefully.

“You´re disgusting.”

“And you still love me.”

Mycroft´s face came from mocking to honest in record time. “Yes, I do.”

* * *

 

 

“John, I need you to talk to Lestrade.” Sherlock was sipping his tea and breaking the toast he was given onto small pieces, letting breadcrumbs all over the couch.

“Sherlock! Stop it! Can´t you just eat your bloody toast like normal people.”

“No. Now listen what I say,” the younger Holmes sat properly and enunciated with too much care: _“I need you to talk to Lestrade.”_

“I heard you the first time. Why don´t you just call him?”

“This has to be done face to face. And besides, it has to be done by _you._ ”

“All right, you have my attention. What do you want me to do?”

“Warn him.”

“I need more information, Sherlock.”

“He´s with Mycroft. In a _relationship_.”

“You aren´t surprised, are you? Because I would say that someone with your _powers of observation_ would have realised long ago from the looks in the hospital they were giving each other...” John noticed, that he must have picked Sherlock´s habit of talking quickly when explaining something painfully obvious, because he muttered those sentences in record speed.

“No, I am not. Neither am I appalled, or disgusted or whatever other ideas you might have.”

“How do you feel, then?”

Sherlock took a while before carefully answering: “...good. I feel good. They both needed someone.”

“I don´t see why I should talk to Lestrade, then.”

“I need you to warn him, as I said. Give him the usual ´you hurt him, I hurt you’ speech.”

“You want me to warn him not to break Mycroft´s heart?”

“... Yes”

“You want _me_ to warn him?”

“I said yes!”

“But it´s your job, Sherlock! Mycroft´s your brother.”

“I can´t do it.”

“Sherlock, you have no case,” John warned.

“No, I cannot do it. I am... biased.”

“How? Because Mycroft´s your brother? You realise that´s rather the point of this social norm?”

“No, because I am already on Lestrade´s side.”

“I don´t get it. Could you just explain it so that _mere humans_ would understand?” John sighed and sat to his favourite armchair, revelling in the familiarity.

“Mycroft was here yesterday. Asked me to protect Lestrade.”

“From what? I thought Mycroft has people, bodyguards and such.”

“Not physical harm. Emotional one.”

“And who would hurt Lestrade emotionally, according to your brother?”

“He.”

“I don´t follow.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and leapt out of the sofa. “Mycroft has this _idiotic_ notion that he is like our father. And he made me swear that if he ever... abused... Greg, I would take Lestrade´s side and get him out of the relationship no matter what.”

“Why would... Abused? Why would Mycroft hurt..?”

“Oh do stop stuttering, John, it´s unbecoming.” Sherlock snapped, but than threw an apologetic glance at him. “He´s so _scared_ , John.”

The doctor considered it for a while. “So... your father was... not good?”

“A bit not good, yeah,” Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly. “Though I didn´t know much about it first hand. It mostly stopped when our step-mother started to live with us. And it doesn´t matter, not to me.”

“But it matters to Mycroft, is that what you´re saying?”

“It´s not like he´s scared of beating Lestrade. If you think about it, I think Greg would have been able to break all of Mycroft´s bones if he all but raised his hand.” Another not-so-much chuckle. “But there was something that terrified Mycroft about mother – our mother, real one –and she died giving birth to me, so this is really just... guesses.”

“I thought you didn´t guess,” John tried to lighten the mood.

“Oh, not about real stuff. But this is... emotions... it´s messy. Long story short, I think that when Mycroft was little, father used to beat both him and our mother, and she still wasn´t able to leave. She could have, she should have – she was by no means stupid or anything, but somehow father managed to have such control over her that the thought never occurred in her brain.”

“So, Mycroft worries about Lestrade becoming _dependent_ on him? As in being unhappy in a relationship and being unable to leave?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Why didn´t you tell me?”

“Well, you are clever enough to realise that Mycroft – that we _both_ \- have trouble not being emotionally distant. And it´s not something you tell every potential flatmate. And by the time you were solving crimes with me... I just didn´t want you to... worry. I´m fine. And Mycroft will be fine, if he manages not to screw up things with Lestrade.”

“Does Lestrade know?”

“About this, you mean?”

“Yes. You said you know him for a very long time.”

“He certainly knows _now_ , most likely far more that we will ever know.”

“You think Mycroft told him?”

“Yes. Either in a desperate attempt to drive him away, or while being gallant and giving him all the information needed to decide whether or not it was worth it to date Mycroft. But I think Lestrade knows.”

“OK. I´ll do it. Warn Greg, I mean. Not that it´s really necessary, if your suppositions are true. But I will warn him.”

“Good.”

“I´m gonna get milk. Get rid of the crumbs while I´m gone, it might attract mice and they would destroy your experiments.”

“Poor attempt, John. I´m not a child.”

“Just do it,” ordered John, checked his pockets for keys and money and added, as an afterthought in the doorframe: “Remind me to talk to Mycroft too. I don´t think I apologised enough for how I used to behave towards him.”

“It´s not necessary. He doesn´t hold a grudge.”

“Still.”

 


	19. Spinoza´s layers

"Sorry I´m late. About five people arrived half an hour before my shift ended," announced John as soon as he caught sight of Greg´s silver head siting in the corner of the crowded pub.

"No worries. We should relocate, though, it´s impossible to talk here," answered Greg just as quite a bulky man bumped into him. The muttered ´sorry´didn´t get him feeling any better. When he chose this particular establishemnt after John asked for a meeting, he was planning to have a pleasant conversation over a pint in a not-that-much frequented pub. What he didn´t account for was the special offer night, which encouraged half of London to go here to get their beer for half the price.

"Good thinking. Where to? Have you ever been to Angelo´s?"

After about half an hour of navigating through the irregular web of London streets, both men managed to get into the pleasant restaurant and fend off the overly happy owner.

"I get it you know him?" Greg smirked just as Angelo _finally_ went to serve other guests.

"He owes Sherlock a favour."

"I see. And how are you? I hope you are OK, what with the Milverton blow-up..."

"Lovely pun," John smiled and Greg gave him a teethy grin. "You know, he saved my life there. Sherlock, I mean."

"For a while, it looked really not nice."

"I guess I just got used to these impossible situations."

Lestrade smiled and then sniffed curiously. "This is a very lovely place. I think I just might get something to eat."

"Didn´t get to a proper lunch?" John asked knowingly.

Greg just shrugged. "What these guys are having looks good."

"I don´t think Mycroft would appreciate the garlic."

The policeman shot him a look and then sighet in resignation: "Bloody Sherlock."

John smirked: "One doesn´t have to have the Holmes´powers of observation to figure you two lovebirds out."

"All right, we might be together. Any problem?"

"Not at all. And before you ask, Sherlock is OK with it too."

"Now that is a surprise," Greg chuckled just before the flow of conversation stopped, because Angelo came to ask them if they were ready to order.

"So how is it?" asked John just as Greg tucked into his gnocchi.

"Warm. Not in need of too much chewing. Heavenly."

"Don´t be daft. Not the food. You with Mycroft."

"I´m not gonna give you a detailed description of what we do, John."

"Do you love him?"

"Yes." Greg didn´t hesitate for a second. Good, John thought. It is always pleasant to find out your assesment of someone´s character was right.

"In accordance to a very old tradition I was asked to inform you, that if you break Mycroft´s heart, _I_ will break both your armes and make your life a living hell," said John half-seriously.

"Are you giving me the ´you hurt him, I hurt you´talk? Isn´t it Sherlock´s job?"

"Mycroft omitted it completely."

"Well, I think it was implied heavily, wasn´t it?"

John smiled. "It´s good you two are together. I think Mycroft is much weaker than he looks."

"Than you need to work on your powers of observation, Dr Watson."

"Oh, don´t get me wrong. Both of the Holmes´ are less strong than what they would like to believe. And they certainly need to be protected."

"There is power in weakness," said Greg quietly.

"Oh! Look at the cop getting all philosophical!" mocked John good-heartedly. And for the rest of the vening, both men let the issue drop and talked about all and nothing, until they were both ready to go home.

* * *

Greg thought that Mycroft would be asleep already when he arrived home, but he was proved wrong by a soft stream of music coming from the library. It was beautiful, just a seemingly simple orchestral piece. Greg hoped that he recognised the leading instrument correctly as oboe, as it was softly an full of melancholy leaping ahead all other music - there was certainly quite a lot of strings.

But it wasn´t sad _per se_ , it felt like a bit of hope was creeping from behind a bush, if that made any sense and Greg supposed it didn´t. As he was following the source of this to the library, he was greeted by a look at Mycroft reading, a few wrinkles above his nose, a thick and well-used volume.

As he moved into the doorframe, not-quite-stealthily enough, Mycroft´s eyes raised and a bit of that intensity with which he were previously reading focused on him. If anything, the look in his eyes was questioning.

Oh no, not again. Greg did not liked very much when he had to repeat how he felt, as if it weren´t true the first time. And if Mycroft were to start doubting this again...

"It´s Morricone," announced Mycroft softly.

It took Greg a moment to figure out that Mycroft meant the composer of that beautiful music. He must look up the name on the internet, there could be more of this beauty there.

"You didn´t have to wait up for me," Greg said. Mycroft didn´t react, but instead continued to leaf through the book again, moving his fingers diagonally across each page in a very quick way.

"I was wrong," announced the elder Holmes after a while. When he saw Greg´s expression, he quickly added: " _About the book."_

"What is it?"

"Spinoza. All these years... I didn´t see..." Mycroft seemed really upset about something, but the policeman couldn´t get a hold of what.

"Calm down, My..."

"There´s... hope. Beneath all those layers, he says that if you keep going, try to be unselfish, you´ll get your reward. And all those years... I read it and _didn´t understand_."

"You do now."

Mycroft really tried to reign all those emotions fighting inside, but he found out he couldn´t. _He´s trying to understand. Do not close off, Mycroft. Try to explain._

"It´s you. You... give me hope. It´s irrational, and stupid... but I need it. You, I mean. I need you. Please, don´t go anywhere. I don´t think I can be... alone... much longer." _Oh great. Now you are crying. How very unbecoming and stupid. He´s gonna leave, you know? Who would want to be with such an emotional wreck?_

Greg´s heart clenched at the sight and even more at the words. _He is so scared._ "Never, Myc," he mumbled just as he has thrown his arms around the taller man.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so, there is going to be around five more chapters, including an epilogue. I hope you still enjoy this, review as you please :D


	20. Bedtime

"I am sorry for my behaviour," whispered Mycroft somwhere into Lestrade´s chest.

"Don´t apologise. You´ve been through a lot these past few weeks."

Mycroft looked up and said even more quietly: "I don´t think that´s it. I am not... tired or anything." He sighed then. "Have you ever watched little, pre-school children react to a puzzle? Most of them would try it, but as soon as they cannot solve it in a few minutes, they would be fed up with it and throw it away."

"You were the child who would solve it."

"Yes. Not necessarily because I was _cleverer_. But because as soon as emotions, feelings, anger appeared, I would clamp them somewhere inside an _think_ instead."

Greg patted his head back, so that Mycroft was once again listening to the policeman´s steadying heartbeat. "What are you trying to say?" Greg´s chest rumbled.

"I still do that. And when I don´t, it becomes _too much_. Like today. I am sorry I lost control and cried like a little girl over something so... trifle. But it won´t be getting any better, I´m afraid."

"I liked it when you lost control the other night in my flat," Greg grinned mischievously. "And feelings are _tedious_ even for the best of us."

"Whatdaya mean?" slurred Mycroft, finally dozing off.

"When I was little, I used to care about others so much, I sometimes had to hide so as to not be overwhelmed."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I could see if they´ve been sad, and I would feel sad too. Even if they tried to cover it. And I always wanted to help, but you cannot comfort all the people in this world, can ya? Or, in my case, the entire population of Weston-Super-Mare. So I wanted to be clever... so as to use my cleverness to help them help themselves."

"But... you said... when you were a child... And I am well past what is considered ´middle-aged´."

"And a very quick learner. Because you are doing the exact right thing: _talking to me._ You have nothing to be scared off. I _love_ you."

"Enough talking," Mycroft announced in an annoyed voice. For a while, Greg was scared that he pushed too far, but when Mycroft´s teeth grazed over his nipple, he figured that was not the case.

"I thought you wanted to sleep," he gasped as Mycroft increased the rate of his ministrations.

"Not what I said, Inspector."

" _Detective Inspector,"_ growled Greg and in one smooth motion turned Mycroft on his back, lying on top of him moments later.

"Oh." Mycroft breathed before he shut your mouth.

"You _may_ talk if you want, you know?" Greg smirked, not really angry. This was just what Mycroft was - closed.

"Sorry."

" _For God´s sake, do NOT apologise!"_ hissed the policeman. His lust-filled gaze completely missed the look of horror this reaction caused on Mycroft´s face. Instead, the DI focused on the diplomat´s chest.

"Slow down." Mycroft breathed out. "Slow down!" he cried out louder, when the first time didn´t bring any apparent change.

"What?" Greg didn´t understand. One moment, everything was good, and now Mycroft was lying there still as a board and asking him to ´slow down´.

"What do you want me to do?"

"...well, have sex with me..."

"No. You don´t... You constantly give me... stuff... and not recieve. So name anything you want me to do right now, and I will do it." Mycroft didn´t say what he really thought - that he was given far more than he could ever give back. And that Gregory will eventually grow tired of this, of Mycroft being unable to give him enough, and leave. But he did not want this to happen, and was too _inept_ to figure something out for himself.

 _He means well,_ Greg reminded himself as the mood was quickly leaving the room. "I´ll think of it, and we´ll do it next time, OK? But for now, I _need you_ , My."

"There´s lube in the drawer," gestured Mycroft towards the bedside table, just as he mentally agreed to the scheme proposed by Greg. "And condoms."

Ah, there it is back, smiled Greg at the reaction this laconic announcement got in the lower parts of his body. And he had an idea.

Slowly, he got up from the bed where they relocated about an hour ago from the library, and opened the drawer. He was followed by a pair of blue eyes completely at a loss.

He slowly donned his already open shirt, trousers, socks and pants, gesturing to Mycroft that he should follow his example. The younger man took his time watching Greg´s improptu strip-tease, but then shed his clothing as well. They were now standing at the opposite sides of the large bed, stark naked and simply observing each other.

"I´m afraid you have me at a disadvantage," commented Mycroft slyly.

"How so?"

"Well, as we are both observing each other, and you look at gestures and body language and I use more physical evidence, you being naked thwarts all my attempts. Miss Adler used a similar trick at Sherlock."

Trust Mycroft Holmes to bring that woman when he was about to have sex. "Your comment about the Adler woman makes me want to slap you," Greg chuckled, but he didn´t really mean it. Mycroft smiled brightly at the joke.

"What now?"

"Lie down and watch." And Mycroft did.

Slowly, Greg squeezed a generous amount of lube on his palm and started to work himself open, positioning his ass so as Mycroft got a good view. _Great,_ Greg thought after a while. _Now he´s not silent._

The elder Holmes was, in fact, moaning quite obscenely, as he watched Greg´s handiwork. Nothing resembling a real word, just an assembly of ohs and aahs, but he did get very loud indeed. _And very hard too_ ,smirked the DI, as he stole a look behind. It even looked as though Mycroft didn´t even touch himself the whole time, just stared at his lover´s ass with a mouth slightly open.

"Lemme," he felt the bed shift, as Mycroft sat on his heels and moved closer behind him. After a bit of fumbling, Mycroft slicked his fingers, gently pulled Lestrade´s one out and started to search Greg´s entrance.

It didn´t feel this embarrasing before, Greg thought, as he felt Mycroft´s gaze burn on his buttocks. It was irrational, really, because Mycroft moved not even a meter and certainly anything he could´ve seen from the previous distance could be seen now. But those thoughts left him completely as Mycroft´s searching fingers found what they were looking for.

"Yesss," Greg hissed and heard a very deep chuckle behind him. "Turn," Mycroft growled then, seemingly understanding now what was the silver haired man´s plan all along, which was a good thing, because Greg wasn´t so sure of it himself now.

But eventually he turned to face Mycroft, and as the Holmes laid down, he moved to have his legs on both parts of that long and thankfully lean body, lowering himself slowly. Apparently, it still wasn´t slow enough, because Mycroft was desperately begging him to slow down.

"What´s the matter, love?" He asked as his legs started to ache from this not-really-here-nor-there position.

"I... I nearly came..." Mycroft choked off. But he must have somehow reigned himself, because after a few steadying breaths, he slammed himself upwards, surprising Greg so much that he let go completely and just fell all the way down.

"Aaargh," Mycroft _yelled_. "Please... please... _more_."

There was no way Greg was going to hold himself back after that. As they came mere moments after, the DI had to change his opinion of whether or not it was possible to come so hard you saw _stars_. As for his lover, Mycroft came with a hollered "Gregory!" which was sure to be heard as far as the Buckingham Palace and wake the Queen from her well deserved sleep.


	21. One moment at a time

He was exhausted. He even contemplated letting go of his and Gregory´s dinner date at seven, because he could not guarantee he would be pleasant company. It seemed that his absence at work was too much of a luxury.

Saying that, there were some things that made him really glad. Anthea proved to be a brilliant strategist of her own merit, and Mycroft supposed that soon, if she was willing to, he might start to relieve some of his work on her. She was more than able to be as good as he was her age, even better if he were frank with himself. And Mycroft was getting old - well, not _old_ old, but she might be the only one competent enough to replace him if need be.

Some of his long-term schemes met a succesful end, and there is nothing so satisfying as watching someone working on Mycroft´s ideas and all the time thinking it were their own. And if it helped Elisabeth to enjoy her snarky humour, Mycroft was happy to oblige.

But there were so many tedious tasks ahead of him. Signing, making small talk, _more signing_ of things he didn´t even have to read because they didn´t matter long-term, accepting all the wishes of good health. That was the worst part, actually, watching the fools and his enemies convult their faces into something resembling sympathy and lying through their teeth.

"Why did you join politics if it bothers you so much?" asked Anthea cheerfully after another of those.

"Is it so apparent?"

"No. I just know you," she smiled. "By the way, I am really happy to have you back. It is good to be in contact with someone _normal._ "

"I thought you had someone?"

"You mean you deduced a year ago that I have a _girlfriend_ and decided to filter any more information out," she grinned and supplied another file for him to read. "We broke up. Weren´t compatible."

Mycroft couldn´t but laugh at that. Than he replied seriously to her original question: "One of the reasons I do this is because it is _hard._ I could have been another Moriarty..." "... far better, even..,"she interrupted. "But it would have been _too easy._ "

"You are funny. Trying to project at the world a very cynical picture of you, when in fact you are just a bit too caring."

"Oh no, not another self-proclaimed psychologist," he laughed it away.

* * *

"Come on, who is it?"

"Did anyone ever tell you you are nosy, Donovan?"

"I work for the police. It is part of my job to be nosy."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Sally."

"It is a horrible habit of old people to mention a proverb whenever they have the opportunity." Greg scowled at that. He wasn´t _that old_ yet. Sally plundered on: "Come on, you spent several weeks on holiday, presumably with her."

"Him," he corrected absent-mindedly.

"Like... really?"

"Surprised? That´s what happens when you´re too nosy," he smirked at her and passed around her towards the elevator. His working hours were over, no viscious murder happened so far and if he manages to get out of the building without the phonecall announcing one he has just the time to clean himself up and change to some proper clothes to meet Myc. Well, he thought, I supposed by tomorrow everyone in the NSY would hear the thrilling myth of ´The Silver Fox´and his elusive boyfriend.

* * *

"Are you kidding? You want me to become... _you_?"

"Look, I know it´s a lot to swallow... And I certainly don´t want you to become _me."_

"Good thing, I would look ridiculous in a three-piece. But are you actually trying to make me your... heir?"

Mycroft opened the door to his office and gestured for her to come in. There was no one else in the building at this hour and there was no way someone was having surveillance here, but still... the sound of a closing door filled him with a feeling of safety.

"Not immediately, Anna. I... what I do is dangerous. We all knew that, when we decided to join the service, that we might die. The thing is - what would you do if I actually died at the Baker Street?"

"Carried on my work for whomever might replace you, sir."

"And who might that be?" Mycroft was winning, and he knew that. He also knew that he was using unfair methods. She deserved better.

"I know you a very long time, Anna. I know that you would stop me when I´ve gone too far. I know that you are clever as hell, resourcefull, but above all, you have no desire for power, for the stagelights. You are a bit like me in that regard."

"When I started this job, you told me: The greatest power is the one you _don´t have to_ _use_."

Mycroft smiled sadly. He remembered how lost he were back then. He realised suddenly that she was his friend, all the time. It was weird to realise it just now, but it filled him with a lot of pride that he had been subconsciously looking for human bond for so long. It gave him hope for himself.

"You have all the ability to do this. But... I can´t and I _won´t_ force you to do anything. I realise there is a lot about this position which might turn unacceptable for you. So... I´ll wait for a week for your answer. Decide for yourself. If you don´t want to do this, than all right, you will remain my PA and I will look for... alternate solutions. An even if you say yes, I am not gonna just abandon my post an leave you to your own devices. We would just work more closely for a while. Decide much more things together... until either the need arises, or the time comes when I will complicate more things than solve."

"A sort of a duumvirate, sir?" she smiled.

"Yes. Exactly that."

"All right. I will give you my answer next Friday. But now you should probably pack your things and go. Greggie is waiting, you didn´t see each other for three days, after all."

"Coming. See you tomorrow, Anthea," he nodded. Just as he was leaving the room, he added: "And you might call me Mycroft when we´re alone. I´m really getting tired of the sirring."

"Goodnight, Mycroft."

* * *

 "You look tired," said Greg after their conversation stopped for the fifth time in half an hour.

"I´m sorry. I´m afraid you might not get much more from me tonight than awkward staring."

"Any trouble at work? Someone trying to get you out of the throne when you were away?"

"Quite the opposite. Someone not willing to take the throne," Mycroft smiled, but it was his ´I am listening to you´smile which didn´t quite reach his eyes.

"Wanna talk about it? Could you?"

"I´d better not. And the final decision hasn´t been reached yet, so this conversation might have proved irrelevant."

"And you hate irrelevant conversations, don´t you?" Greg grinned. It warmed Mycroft inside a bit.

"You were saying?" he tried to rewind the previous conversation as he cut into his quickly cooling meat.

"I might have inadvertantly come out today at the office."

"Did they react bad?" Mycroft winced. He supposed that it must have been a bit of a shock to discover that their boss, rapidly approaching fifty, is bisexual.

"Dunno. They are more likely speculating about you?"

"I never met your co-workers."

"Exactly. In the next month they might pop unnanounced in my flat, just to see if you are round."

"Better seek refuge at mine," Mycroft smiled and continued chewing. " Is it normal to be this nosy?" he mused aloud, but than caught sight of Greg´s satisfied expression.

"What?" Mycroft asked, bewildered.

"Just thinking that I have a lot of stuff at your place anyway..."

It took a while before Mycroft figured it out: "Do you want to move in? You know you can, don´t you? You´ve already lived there for weeks, I thought it was obvious that you could stay if you wanted..."

He was silenced by a kiss. "Good. I will move in with you. You know, I want to be with you as much as I could."

"Good. Just... the home office is mine only, all right?"

"Afraid I might read something top secret? Are there really genetically modified giant sharks?"

" _Giant sharks?_ Whatever for?"

"Seen it in a movie."

"You watch too much bad TV. And the home office... I don´t want you to know too much. Knowing too much puts you in danger."

"Oh, don´t deny it, you just don´t want me to wander through your territory," Greg added mockingly just as he was decifring Mycroft´s previous sentence.

"That might be that too," Mycroft agreed to play the game. "Do you want to get dessert? I must admit, I´m not that hungry tonight."

"I want to go home. And make love with you. Or just be with you, whatever you prefer."

"Have you had the time to try the jacuzzi while you were staying at mine?"

"There is a tub? Where? Is your house bigger on the inside?"

"And _that_ was a Doctor Who reference, wasn´t it?" Mycroft grinned at Gregs approving nod. "I´ll show you. And now my bandages are finally gone, I _will_ join you."

"Let´s go, then."

"I´m coming, love."


	22. Domestic bliss

Greg thought that all things considered, his life was going marvelously this last few months. He thought about selling his lousy flat, but in the end ended up renting it at a very small price to his niece Joanne, who unexpectedly came to London with her boyfriend to study at the LSE.

He grabbed this opportunity to renew his contact with his brother and his family, and it turned out Sam was as grumpy as always, but also very happy to hear from him after all this time. Greg even called his mother, after procuring her number from Sam, to congratulate her to her birthday; and although things would probably never be as they used to, he was feeling much more content now he knew that his family didn´t forget him completely and still, up to some extent, cared about him.

The thing that brought him most happiness, though, was watching Mycroft slowly learning how to believe in himself once more. He supposed others didn´t see much change on the diplomat, with the obvious exception of Sherlock, John and probably Anthea (he would call her like that to the end of his days, and she didn´t seem to mind).

He loved the flashes of pure smile he would sometimes cause. He loved how unashamedly happy Mycroft was every time they were in bed together. He adored how Mycroft sometimes clumsily tried to take care of him, oftentimes ending blushing and unable to speak, until Greg kissed the shame and feeling of unsufficiency away.

In the first few weeks together in the house, Greg took the liberty of changing a few things. For one, Mycroft didn´t seem to understand why there should be plants _inside_ the house, when there was a perfectly good and butterfly attracting garden just outside. But he accepted when an aspidistra found its way into the living room, and on one occasion which made Greg smile even now, he found the goverment official in his three piece suit sniffing each of the new herbs in the kitchen.

Not all was without a problem, of course. Several times, Greg encountered a very upset Mycroft and pestered him with questions so much that he was carefully but firmly asked to _stop and give Mycroft a bit of a privacy._ Usually Mycroft would come out of his office half an hour later, in a very matter-of-fact way explaining why he felt as he did and Greg eventually came to the conclusion that Mycroft used the time alone to sort through his emotions, which he was unable to do in anyone´s presence.

Sometimes, on the other hand, it was Greg who came home utterly drained. He would be met with a hot beverage and a careful but genuine question: "What do you want me to do?" And he was confident that whatever he would ask at such a moment, Mycroft would get for him. The diplomat just didn´t believe his empathy that much to _guess_.

The elder Holmes was minutely more social as well. Even though he was still _very_ introverted, Greg often came home to be met with a sight of his partner having tea with Anthea, or John, and on two memorable occasions, with Sherlock. As far as Greg knew, they were always one-on-ones and didn´t last longer than two and a half hours, but he was incredibly proud. _See, you idiot,_ he would silently think, _you need people just as much as they need you._

* * *

Mycroft could see how content Greg was in this relationship and still couldn´t believe his luck. He, Mycroft Holmes, a self-proclaimed misanthrope, has a partner. Someone who cares for him. Someone to care for, while knowing your offer to help wouldn´t be rejected.

He often wondered if Gregory just saw right through him. But then there were moments when it was apparent it was not the case, Greg wasn´t any kind of a mind-reader, because sometimes his partner would think some of his questions had a hidden meaning, a secret agenda, when in fact he asked out of sheer curiosity. But these moments were sparce and far between and Mycroft did not mind.

What he did mind, though, was that often he wasn´t sure what to do. Greg would come home completely exhausted, seemingly in need to share the horrible things that caused this - and Mycroft didn´t know how to start him talking. He knew Gregory needed to be listened to by someone once in a while. Mycroft silently thought that this was Greg´s ex-wife´s greatest crime - not cheating on her husband, not being able to give him the children he craved so much - but her unwillingness to listen.

But Mycroft would listen. And in turn, Greg would listen to what he had to say on the matter. Weirdly enough, unlike many people, Gregory looked like he found solace in Mycroft´s logical approach to the problem. Of course Mycroft did not _think_ that once you reasoned the trouble out, it was gone. But it helped.

Mycroft soon found himself in need of anything Greg in his life. At first, when he was away from the country and working, he was scared of how _dependant_ he has became, how _homesick_ he felt. He craved being around the silver-haired man, smelling him on his sheets, seeing what kind of new potted plant he brought with himself. Mycroft particulary liked the peppermint.

But then he figured there were more pros than cons to his new domesticality. Because Greg would fill places in Mycroft the elder Holmes didn´t previously known they existed. Because the policeman dulled the ache that was eating Mycroft from inside. Because sometime between the first and the second week of their shared household, the scathing inner voice that sounded like his father was smothered forever.

He no longer had bad dreams. His realtionship with Sherlock was getting better every day. Everyone he cared for was happy. Which made Mycroft happy as well.


	23. The children and the blow

A year later, Lestrade had to remade his opinion that he would never be happier than at the exact moment Mycroft said ´I do´in that soaked-through with emotion voice of his. But he was wrong.

"Obviously, if you don´t want to..," Mycroft already started to backpedal.

"Mycroft, _of course_ I would like to raise children with you!" Greg shouted.

"Good." Mycroft grinned. "I´m not sure I can be a top notch parent, given my... background... but you would be brilliant enough for both of us," he added confidently.

"Are you kidding?! Any child would adore you!"

"You think?"

"I know! So how would you like to do this? Oh, we have to get a surrogate for you... the Holmes genes must not be extinct."

"Perhaps the world would be a better place without so called ´Holmes genes´."

"Nonsense. People like you are the only ones able to stop total obliteration of life on Earth."

"Because they most likely caused it in the first place," answered Mycroft half-seriously. "But if we were to preserve these genes, we must make absolutely sure to save the genes of the ´Holmes handlers´too."

* * *

Anthony Sherlock Lestrade-Holmes was born on the New Years Eve. Lestrade thought for himself that the kid must have inherited a flair for dramatics from his uncle, to have its birth announced with a giant fireworks spreading on the sky of London. Mycroft´s only thought for an astonishingly long moment was a repeated: _You have a son._

 _  
_He could not believe it. This beautiful, fragile thing was his son. He discarded all fears he might have had about not loving him enough; because right now he could not choke a wor, that´s how much he was taken. Never. What kind of an animal would hurt this beautiful baby? Not Mycroft. Never Mycroft.

  
"He´s so... small," he whispered wetly as soon as he could. Greg smiled brightly.

They´ve discussed who´s genetic material would be used first (and they agreed that whatever happens, they would certainly have _at least_ two children, so it was merely a question sequence). In the end, they opted for the use of board games. As Mycroft argued that they could not play chess, as he would _obviously_ win, the decision was made after a very exciting game of Snakes and ladders, provided by amused John Watson. And Mycroft won anyway.

So when Anthony opened his eyes, they were blue. Or possibly greenish grey, Greg wasn´t sure. But they were Mycroft´s eyes, looking like two small universes. They lacked the soft sadness which never seemed to leave Mycroft´s expression, except for a very short time of pure bliss after climaxing (at this point, Lestrade chimed himself mentally - he was looking at his newborn son for the first time, he was not supposed to think about shagging).

And really, the boy was more Mycroftish every day he grew - and Lestrade loved it, and loved imagining what Mycroft must have looked like at this age based on Anthony.

Lestrade´s (or _technically_ Lestrade´s, as Mycroft made  _very_ evident) turn came about a year after Anthony was born.

"My, our surrogate just called," phoned Greg with a grin pasted to his face.

"What´s the matter? Is something wrong?" worried Mycroft. She should have passed the time with the most danger of spontaneous miscarriages by now, he counted in his head immediately.

"There are two."

"What?"

"There are two babies."

"Really? Two Lestrades?"

"Lestrade-Holmeses."

"Anthony will adore having twins in the house when he will be older. All the experiments he could conduct," Mycroft smiled.

"You Holmeses!" tuted Greg, but didn´t really mean it.

* * *

So there were five members of the joint Lestrade-Holmes household. Dark haired, pale skinned Anthony, who resembled his uncle Sherlock in appearance except for the curls, and who was as clever as his father. He was secretly people-oriented, Mycroft noticed, though. Even if his son did not enjoy parties much and often preferred to listen patiently in the corner, he functioned as a kind of a counselor to his friends. He loved explaining theories to his peers.

Anthony soon showed interest in physics, scorning his uncle in jest for choosing chemistry instead. "Physics looks for the big picture, uncle," his son said to Sherlock once. "You are getting lost in the details." The funny thing was, that Anthony actually believed that there was some principle, a mysterious set of rules to this world. And he wanted to understand it. And he wanted _others_ to understand its beauty.

And then, there were the two younger children - a beautiful, long haired and musically talented Sophia Jane and the only extrovert of the family, easy-going Nicholas Adrian. There was nothing more beautiful than listening to Sophia´s clarinet after a long day. There was nothing which would make both Greg and Mycroft more proud than listening Tony and Nick´s banter, Nick getting lost in possibilities and Tony working them out and discarding them one by one, until only two or three remained.

Mycroft used to be a bit worried about Nick, whom he felt a bit lacking follow-through in his innovative ideas. But then a school magazine got into his hands with Nick´s name in the colophon. And then it appeared in the local news. By the time this occurence became regular, it was clear Nick was doomed to become a journalist.

And quite a good one. He was in charge of a regular column about the impact of science on everyday life by the time he started university. Well, at least he did not do political news. Nick´s favourite uncle was John, of course. Mycroft supposed Dr Watson´s quick way to fame as an author (if you were to count the blog as a piece of literature) appealed to his younger son a great deal.

Weirdly enough, Soph was the shiest one in the family, often closing herself in her room adjoining the garden, to come back to life a day later, a hand written musical sheet clutched in the gentle hand, and on its heartbreakingly beautiful music. Her parents often wondered exactly how much creativity is dormant behind the brown eyes.

Mycroft supposed he, and mainly Greg, have given to their children all that was possible. He hoped all three considered their childhood a happy one. They were all given the best education possible while attending it from home, until they reached the age of going into university. Anthony studied physics, obviously. Soph was on a good way to became the most famous female composer of classical music of the twenty-first century.

And Nick, ever the enigma, kept the tension for several weeks until admitting his studies of French and Spanish. Mycroft thought he could have chosen a less _easy_ language (he himself would have chosen Arabic, if he had the time to study languages). But Greg stood by their son, supporting him in this decision and Mycroft must have admitted he had no right to project his wishes on their adult (or almost adult) son.

* * *

As the time of happiness approached and then passed second decade, Mycroft found himself wondering when the _blow_ will come. Statistically, if he were to work with his past, these were decades of eerie calm.

And then Greg died.

At first, it seemed impossible.

The man Mycroft got his strenth from, the man he needed, the man he loved... was gone. Shot. Dying in a dirty alleyway.

And Mycroft did not know. Irrationally, he thought that he would _feel_ if something was wrong with Greg, wherever he was.

But he did not feel anything. He was at a boring conference, his phone turned off. He found out an hour later, when the ambassador _finally_ stopped chatting about his daughter.

He turned his phone on. Full voicemail. Hundred of texts. _But... why none of my assistents came and told me?_ But none of them ever managed to get close to Anthea´s abilities.

_This can´t be._

_No, Mycroft. It unfortunately IS possible. You are experiencing a shock reaction. Your brain is trying to protect you from too big a blow._

_IT IS NOT DOING A VERY GOOD JOB!  
_

He wanted to yell at the world. How is it possible the stupid bafoon of an ambassador lives, and Greg is dead?! Or why didn´t Mycroft´s inept assistant take his partner´s place.

_Why didn´t I die instead of Greg?_

And suddenly, it felt like he was, indeed, dying as well. He couldn´t breathe. He was vaguely aware that his chest should be rising and falling down, but it stayed tight, and no air was making it to his lungs. His throat constricted. His eyes welled with wetness and he hated it, hated being this weak, having no control over himself... But when his legs gave way, he realised that the pain he was feeling physically was nothing against the sandpaper working its way through his emotions.

"Mycroft! There he is!"

Sherlock, and John behind him. He did not deserve this, this small mercy of seeing his relatives at the moment of his demise, when Greg died and there wasn´t even a CCTV camera to look into for Mycroft to watch later.

"Mycroft! Come on, you have to breathe. Slowly, come on! In, out."

"What´s this? Is he..."

"Panic attack. Come on, Myc..."

At the sound of his nickname from John Watson´s lips, he raggedly took in breath to choke out a sob. Noone called him like that, except for Gregory.

"He´s gone," he mumbled lamely.

"We know," answered Sherlock, crouching next to him.

"Tony, Nick and Soph are on their way to St. Bart´s right now. You should be there too," added John.

"Why?"

"They need you."

"I can´t... I can´t."

"Mycroft..."

"Please... It should´ve been me... dying... he would know what to say to them. But I..."

"You need them too, Mycroft," said Sherlock suddenly.

"They´re my children! I am supposed to support _them_ , not vice-versa!"

"DO IT, then!" Sherlock shouted. "Do you think I don´t care? That John doesn´t care?! He was our friend, too. But this... _wailing_... is not gonna solve anything! So either you hide here, or take care of your offspring when they need it!"

"...I´m sorry," Mycroft whispered after a while. "Let´s go."

* * *

He thought that this blow would be his last. That he can´t take any more, that without Greg he would die. But worse things happened - he lived. He was doomed to the same of _survival_ from day to day he experienced before he met the detective inspector.

He tried to pretend around his children that he was all right. Tried to support them as well as he could, but he failed miserably. Especially Soph was hard struck and extremely aware of each of his little lies, every ´fine´he used to divert their focus elsewhere.

Eventually, the children left back for university and left him in the house full of memories. As far as Mycroft knew, Anthony busied himself in his work and Nicholas wrote a series of articles about insufficient control of illegal trade with guns.

And Sophie found solace with her new boyfriend. The elder Holmes wasn´t angry. Peter looked like a good fellow. He reminded him of John Watson in his stubborn support of ones he loved, something Mycroft found himself incapable of.

Peter, a moderately succesful businessman and a very conservative fellow, asked for Sophie´s hand five months, three weeks and four days after Greg died. They married two months later.

Mycroft was happy for her. And proud that all three of his children seemed to get through this difficult time relatively unscarred. But as for himself, he was lost.

He was too weak for this. Mycroft had no doubt about the fact that were it _him_ who died first, his beautiful husband would have managed to heal and do a lot of good for his fellow. A widower Greg would have used all his suddenly free time to support people in need, helping, doing charity work, whatever.

But Mycroft did not have it in him. He tried work to help. He persuaded Anthea to send him on dangerous missions _in person_ , but all bullets always missed him. And he could not kill himself - not because he would _care_ about angering any kind of deity, or because he wouldn´t be able to carry on - but because he had _no right_ to hurt his children even more.

He wondered how long until body finally weared off enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more chapter - an epilogue. I am sorry there is no happy end. There was never going to be one.


	24. Epilogue

_Dear Sophie,_

_dear Nicholas,  
_

_and dear Anthony,  
_

_I am afraid that if you are reading this letter now, I have already done what I wanted to do and my sorry existence is no longer spoiling this Earth.  
_

_In this envelope, you will find a detailed medical file which used to belong to me; in there, you will see an irrefutable proof that I would not walk in this world much longer anyway. Cancer, you see.  
_

_Call it pride, if you want, but after everything I have done to you, I refuse the notion of you watching me slowly dying. I do not want my children watch me getting sicker every day with no hope for getting better. I refuse to be in pain just so as you could suffer for another day with me, and I detest the idea of screaming things at you while delirious, things I would never say while healthy.  
_

_I refuse to not be in control over what little is left to me in this life to have control over.  
_

_If you can, forgive me all those things with which I have ever wronged you; but I hesitate to ask you such a thing, for how could you forgive what I cannot forgive myself?  
_

_I have made many mistakes in my life. I have done things I am not proud of, things I have rarely spoken about, deeds which took me away from the realm of ´good people´.  
_

_The things I consider right are only a few. The greatest one of them being in love with your dad, Gregory. And seizing this opportunity for happiness, and having you.  
_

_I could never properly express how proud I am of you, so I will have to hope you know that. When I saw you for the first time, Anthony, I could not believe that something so pure was made also by me. And when Greg told me that we were going to have twins, I had thought that was the greatest thing ever, for there has to be as much people with his large smile and brown eyes walking this Earth as possible.  
_

_The sad thing is, I was never the strong one out of the pair of us. Gregory was carrying my weight as well and I never properly thanked him for it; I wasn´t even there when he died. I shall never forgive myself this, and what followed.  
_

_For I am not enough for you, my children. When you were looking for strength, I offered feeble resemblance of normality. So eventually you looked elsewhere, and it is all right.  
_

_I think that one day you will have a piece of a puzzle that is this universe called after you, Anthony.You have both the ability to find it out and to explain to other a difficult concept, and that is a rare mix. Be happy, be well and do not be alone.  
_

_Nicholas, I think you are one of the few journalists having a few braincells and I think you can use media to change the world for better and to allow people to not squash every vision right away as  ´naive´. You have the potential to enchant people to see the changes and to try and make them. But do not forget yourself within all these big things.  
_

_Sophie, I want to tell you that I loved your wedding and Peter is a charming young man. But I also think that it should have been Greg walking you to the altar and making a funny speech at the feast. I think everyone would be happier like that. Do not let this world destroy your creative potential. You are a brilliant composer and a beautiful human being.  
_

_I love you all.  
_

_I am sorry  
_

_Your ´papa´ Mycroft  
_

* * *

_Dearest brother, dear John,  
_

_I am afraid it fell on your shoulders to find me like this. The reasons are apparent from the file attached to the first letter.  
_

_It is unfortunate my organs cannot be used for others to save their lives, as they have been slowly eaten away by cancer and are too old anyway. I think scientific purposes are out too, but if you are of a different opinion, Sherlock, do as you please. I am not very fond of my carcass.  
_

_Despite all the blunders in our relationship, I want you to know that I always loved you, little brother. I might not be able to show it properly, or to tend for you in a way you would not consider ´nosy´, but I do. I am sorry - you know for what. I still do not consider my debt to you paid, and now it never will be. Forgive me, if you so please.  
_

_But after all, you never needed your old, boring brother. The person who managed to find the goodness in you was John; and for that, I can never express my gratitude. Perhaps there are good man out there to balance all the evil, and we both had the luck to share some years with such people.  
_

_Thank you, John, for protecting my brother. I am afraid you will have to do it on your own now, but he is far better house-trained than ever.  
_

_Be well. Please try not to delete me from your Memory Palace.  
_

_I love you, Sherlock. I admire you, John.  
_

_Mycroft  
_

* * *

_Dear Anna Theodora,  
_

_I was right when I said that there is only one person able to take over after me, and that person is you. You are even better than me, although I find the new decor you chose for my old office ghastly.  
_

_I know I leave the Great Britain in good hands. And I know that my suicide will be no surprise to you.  
_

_In the years before Greg, you were the friend I did not even know about, an I never properly thanked you; I do so now._

_Be careful, this country needs both your head and your heart.  
_

_When you have the time, I would be obliged to you if you kept an eye on my brother and my children; though I wouldn´t be able to express my gratitude in person.  
_

_Do not think too harshly of me, please, I have always been just a silly old fool.  
_

_Yours  
_

_Mycroft Holmes_

* * *

_  
_Mycroft Holmes was found dead on the day of the first anniversary of his husband´s death. He was slumped in an armchair, lighted only by the dying ambers in the fireplace, and no one was really surprised.

Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade were buried next to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story.


End file.
